


The Windows Are Covered in Cobwebs, and It Rains All The Time (I Guess It's Home).

by AToZRainToBe



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adoptive Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Alternate Universe - Farm/School AU, Angst and Humor, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Kinda, Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Grayson | Purpled, Mentioned Niki | Nihachu, Not that angsty ?, POV TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, but like, in the found family trope kinda way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28953792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AToZRainToBe/pseuds/AToZRainToBe
Summary: Tommy really, really doesn't want to be here. When he  thinks of school, being sent to a farm to participate in child labour definitely isn't the first thing that comes to mind- but here he is, at a farm, about to participate in child labour because of his school. Three weeks, with three strangers, on a muddy, shitty, cold place that never seems to go beyond fucking freezing in terms of temperature.And now it's raining. Great.
Relationships: Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 117
Kudos: 576
Collections: sleepy bois inc





	1. Week One.

The windows are covered in cobwebs, and when the curtains are shut, there’s always a little bit of light that streams through the crack. There’s a spider that sits in the corner of the entrance onto the porch. The little picnic table always creaks like a dying pig whenever someone walks nearby. The hooks for jackets are rusted, weird, and covered in cobwebs. 

There’s a seat from the back of a van pressed against the wall that ends the porch. The door to the house also creaks like it’s nobody's business. There are two bunk beds, which means four overall beds, and one of him. 

Duvets and pillows sit on the top of the second bunk bed, the one closest to the door but further from the windows. The first lies barren and empty with its shitty mattresses and an old camera kicked underneath it. 

It’s shitty, it’s cold, it’s cramped, and it’s dusty, but it’s where Tommy is staying for the next three weeks. Unfortunately. 

His bags lie on the top bunk of the second bunk bed, with the duvets and pillows. The sink is left empty, but he does eye the tea they have on a shitty hand-made shelf next to the doorway. There’s a metal desk with drawers pushed up against the wall opposite his bunk bed, and the curtains are shut, and he refuses to sit on the chair in the corner because he’s pretty sure someone’s died in it. 

At least there's a heater. Not that it does much. 

-

“So, nice to meet you, Tommy, I’m Phil,” The farmer says. Tommy decides immediately that this man has no idea what a city looks like. He’s wearing green rain pants and a long black raincoat (which is fair, it was raining) coupled with black gumboots and a striped fisherman’s hat. It’s everything Tommy imagined and somehow, so much more disappointing. “I take care of the larger farm around here. Sheep and macadamia nuts and all that.” 

“Hi,” Tommy responds. 

“I’ve one son, Techno, and another worker- you’ll meet them both later on,” Phil is in the kitchen, rinsing a plate. “This afternoon I’m going to take you out to herd sheep. You’ll need gumboots and rain gear.”

Oh great. Tommy  _ loves  _ this. What a great start. 

That’s sarcastic.

Phil turns to him with a smile. “Go on, get ready,” He encourages. “I don’t have forever, I’m getting older as we speak.”

-

Farms have hills. Tommy knows farms have hills. Tommy decides he hates hills. He also decides that Phil is… not going to take it easy on him. 

“So,” Phil starts. Tommy’s gripping a rubbish bag in one hand, and thin air in the other. His boots make a disgusting noise as he treads through the mostly-flat paddock. “You’re doing this for school? That’s pretty cool, mate. It’s our first year having your school send people to us.”

“Mhm,” Tommy hums. 

“So what’s the school like?” Phil asks. 

And what was it Tommy’s teacher said? They’d get sent back if they were rude to the farmers? Fuckin’  _ sweet _ . Tommy knows being rude like the back of his hand. He didn’t get labelled as a problem child for nothing. 

He flat out ignores Phil. 

Phil, who does the unexpected- shrugs and says; “That’s alright. So, the other worker’s name is Wilbur, and I’ll get him to give you a rundown of the history ‘cause he’s quite into that.” They make their way over the top of a hill, and Tommy takes note of the grave that sits atop it, near some bare trees.

“He’ll be taking you out tomorrow morning to rake some of the fields while I move sheep- which is what we’re doing this afternoon,” Phil continues. 

“You’ll use the rubbish bag to scare them- just by rustling it,” Phil demonstrates with his own stick-bag mechanism. Tommy grunts, hardly acknowledging the movement Phil makes. “Try not to get them all over the paddock. We’re getting them from one place to the other- and don’t rustle too often or they‘ll get used to the noise.”

They come to a gate, and he unlocks it with a smooth movement, pushing the rusty metal open and letting Tommy pass through before he closes it again. “Just- rustle when I tell you, move where I tell you, follow instructions and everything will be fine.”

Tommy takes that as;  _ do the exact opposite of what I say, at all times.  _

Sheep, Tommy learns, are very afraid of things that are bigger than them. They are also, Tommy learns, disgusting. Little more than an hour in, they find one of the recently-born lambs, a sheep placenta, and a ‘mother’ that Phil isn’t sure actually gave birth to the lamb they found with it. 

Tommy has no idea what evidence Phil has to back up that statement, something about the sheep not looking like her body was prepared to mother, but he really,  _ really _ doesn’t care. Sheep are gross, their placenta (which Phil throws over a fence) is gross, and the only thing Tommy likes about them is that they’re obedient. 

Unfortunately, he also hates that about them, because it means that even though he rustles the bag when Phil tells him not to- they still go where they’re wanted.  _ Fuck.  _

The good thing is it doesn’t rain. Only a light drizzle and neither of them are bothered by it. That’s possibly the only good thing. 

By the time they return for dinner, Tommy has decided that the only thing remotely able to redeem the day is sleep. The house isn’t half bad, once you get past the cattle stop in the driveway and the shitty cobweb-covered covering that goes over said driveway, and the fact that everything reeks of macadamia nuts and sheep shit. Inside, the open-plan kitchen-dining room-living room is warmed by a fire in the black fire-pit that sits at the end of a long, straight pipe that reaches towards the roof and looks like something directly out of a witch’s hut in some Disney film Tommy probably hasn’t bothered to watch. 

A worn, ash-covered carpet sits out the front of the fire pit, next to the tools used to stoke said fire. On top, a stainless steel pot boils some water using the heat of the fire. It’s a weird setup considering they have an oven and stove in the kitchen a little more than five long strides across the room away. It’s the only source of warmth in this room, and though the room itself is warmed fairly well by the fire, Tommy sticks by its side like it’s his lifeline. 

Because the whole place is shitty, but at least he’s warm. 

Phil left to go fetch the worker- Wilbur, was it? That’s a weird fucking name- and his son, who also has a weirder fucking name that Tommy can’t be arsed remembering. That leaves Tommy, alone, in the kitchen. 

If he wanted to cause even  _ more  _ problems, he could fuck with the food. But he has standards, even for a problem child,  _ and  _ he’s incredibly hungry. He might’ve brought snacks, but he’d like some decent meals that don’t involve nuts, protein bars, and whatever dried fruit Tubbo threw in Tommy’s bag before the flight left because he ‘didn’t want to eat it’. 

So that idea is immediately dismissed. 

The glass sliding door opens with the rumble Tommy’s come to expect from it as a man with wild brown hair steps into the room. The shade is almost the same as Tubbo’s, but lighter, with flecks of gold littering the tops of each wild strand. He strips himself of a cartoonish, long yellow raincoat and slips on a beanie that goes decently with the yellow crewneck underneath. 

Whoever this is, they like the colour yellow. 

Not like that helps anything, or is even remotely of use, but Tommy notes it down anyway. Another thing to make fun of when he calls Tubbo later. Yellow is such a stupid colour to like. Red is  _ obviously  _ better. 

“Hey, I’m Wilbur,” The man says, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Fuck Wilbur. He doesn’t bother with the extended hand. “Tommy,” He says, motioning to himself. And then, to cause problems; “Why the fuck do you like yellow?”

Wilbur steps back, blinking, and takes back the extended hand. “Excuse me?”

“I said, why the fuck do you like yellow?”

“It’s a nice colour?” Wilbur blinks. “I’m sorry, aren’t you like, six? Why are you questioning my colour choice?”

“I’m six _ teen _ , dipshit,” Who does this guy think he is? “And I’m questioning your colour choice cause you’re colour choice is shit.”

“Says the  _ child  _ wearing red and white.”

“Hey! They’re attractive colours!”

“They-“

Wilbur quiets as the door to the rest of the house opens, revealing someone with long, pink, braided hair and tired eyes. Tommy finds the style kind of appealing, and at least this person is wearing red, even if Tommy’s pretty sure it’s they just woke up and threw on the closest thing they could see. That’s something he  _ can  _ put to use. “See, whoever this is  _ agrees _ that red is the better colour,” Tommy says, waving a hand towards the newbie’s shirt. 

“Hi, Techno,” Wilbur says. “I’m just bullying a child for his fashion sense, don’t mind me.”

The new person- Techno- grunts, heading towards the kitchen. Tommy pays him no mind; “I’m not a child, fucker.”

“Really? You act like one,” Wilbur remarks, following Techno to the kitchen. Tommy resorts to a foolproof tactic of sticking his tongue out at Wilbur and remaining next to the fire. Techno huffs out what Tommy assumes is supposed to be a laugh. 

“Tech- oh, here you are,” Phil enters from the same door as Techno, blissfully unaware as to what has just occurred. “Techno and Wilbur, This is Tommy, a student from that school I told you about. Tommy, this is Techno and Wilbur.”

“We’ve met,” Techno says. 

“Like five minutes before you came in, old man,” Wilbur smiles. “I was just telling the child that Yellow is an acceptable colour. Do you think it’s a good colour, Phil?”

Phil glances between the two. “Phil, big man, C’mon,” Tommy says. If he plays his cards right, he can get the upper hand purely by being younger  _ and  _ new to farm life. “Red is better. You’ve got to agree, right? You wouldn’t let a poor, young, child that’s also a guest of yours feel bad about the colour he’s wearing, right?”

“Oh don’t act like  _ I  _ started this,” Wilbur points an aggressive butter knife towards him. “ _ You _ insulted Yellow.” 

“Cause Yellow is shit.”

“So is Red.”

“Well-“

“Are you going to eat?” Techno asks, holding a bag of bread and staring at Tommy. Phil takes the opportunity to slip past Wilbur and get towards the kettle, pouring himself a cup of tea. 

“Yeah,” Tommy responds. “Wait- are we having toast? For dinner? What the fuck?”

“I couldn’t be bothered cooking,” Phil responds. “Toast is easy.”

“You’re all fucking weird.” 

“I’m adopted.” Techno, completely deadpan, responds. 

And for the first time in a while, Tommy laughs until his ribs hurt and he can’t breathe properly. 

-

They eat around the small, round dining room table that is covered by an overhanging light, each perched on the creaky, old chairs. On one side sits the kitchen, with its wooden benches, old pans, pots, and handmade cupboards. On the other, the living room is made up of a couch pressed against a dirty wall with a painting of some chickens hanging above, some paints, sharpies, and awards littering the wall beneath the covered window next to the couch. In front of them, the sliding door shields them from the cold and the bugs that have probably made themselves home on the verandah. For that reason alone, Tommy dreads his return to the shoddy sleep out he’s staying at. 

All in all, it would be pretty homely, if it wasn’t so dirty and cold and very much  _ not _ Tommy’s regular home. 

Techno eats quietly, Phil watching the news for the weather forecast. “It’s raining in showers tomorrow,” he comments, muting the forecaster. “Take your raincoats tomorrow, boys.” 

“Will do, Phil,” Wilbur responds, plate discarded on the table. He drums an unfamiliar tune on the table. “We’ll be doing the flat and magnolia paddocks, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Phil responds, shutting off the TV and turning back towards the table. “If you get the chance, check the wetlands paddocks too. I hope it doesn’t, but the pond might flood.” 

“Sir yes sir,” Wilbur chuckles. 

It’s warm. Tommy settles into the chair, pushing his plate half-heartedly away. The room feels a little less like a dirty, hand-carved house in the middle of a farm in a place Tommy doesn’t know and doesn’t like, and more as if it were home to these people, and he’s home with them. 

Maybe it’s alright if he calms down for a little while. He can breathe easy, just for now, in the silence of the room. The toast was nice. Wilbur disgusted him with the amount of avocado he used, and that was almost enough to put Tommy off completely, but it turned out to be a better dinner than he’d expected. It’s nice. 

This is a nice, happy moment. 

“Oi, child, is it night night time?” Wilbur jokes. “You look like you’re passing out in your chair.”

Nevermind. The nice moment is gone. 

“Fuck you.” 

“That’s not using your kind words,” Wilbur says. “Use your kind words, child.”

“I’m-“ Tommy sits up. “Fuck you, Wilbur.”

Wilbur hums. “Have you ever played UNO, child?” 

“Of course I’ve played fucking UNO,” Tommy scoffs. “I’m no idiot. I’m the  _ best _ at UNO.” 

“Doubt it,” Wilbur responds. “But let’s test that claim. You in, Techno?” 

Techno makes a hum that Tommy  _ assumes  _ means something to Wilbur, and he assumes correct if the way that Wilbur’s smile widens is any consolation. “Phil?” Wilbur asks next, turning to the elder. 

“Yeah sure,” Phil says. “Why not.”

Wilbur cheers and Tommy can’t help the smile that sits on his face as he watches the lanky brunette rush to get a deck of UNO from his raincoat. So this was definitely planned. Tommy can live with that. 

The deck hits the table, and Wilbur gives him a smile. “Since you know how to play,” He prompts. “Why don’t you deal?”

“Sure,” Tommy lulls, melodramatic annoyance clear in the way he moves to pick up the deck and begin setting up the game. “You’re going to lose.”

He goes to bed a loser, but with the widest smile on his face. A smile that drops the minute he has to jump the fence that lines his porch because he’s scared of the big, blood-hungry spider that hangs by the thread of a cobweb in the entryway. 

God this place is shitty. 

-

He wakes up cold, and only wakes up because the light that streams through the windows in the front door of his little sleepout are in direct view of the rising sun, apparently. Great. 

The sun blinds him as he rolls himself onto the floor and scoots out of his sleeping bag. Then he’s left twice as cold, now with no blankets, and on the floor. What was his plan again? 

Right. He’d put his rain gear outside because he needed it yesterday and couldn’t be fucked bringing it back inside before they ate. That means that the only thing he needs to do now is get dressed into something, anything, warmer than his current clothes. 

Which turns out to be one of the many red-and-white shirts he packed, some jeans, and a puffer jacket. He’s barely even registered the fact he has  _ working clothes on _ this early in the morning before he hears a knock on his door. 

“Child! Breakfast!” Wilbur. 

Honestly, who the fuck does that? What a prick. Tommy wishes that this shitty place at least redeemed itself in letting him sleep. It’s bad enough the bathroom is a little shed sitting against the side of his sleepout, squashed between his cabin, and what he’s learned is Wilbur’s little attic-shack with creaky stairs all the way up to the door, but now he has to deal with early starts? 

The only redeeming thing about this is that he can call Tubbo. And that he has his phone. And maybe that he likes the flowers they have sitting on the fence of the main house’s garden. 

Wilbur has the guts to open the door. “You’re Not sleeping, are you? That would-“ They make eye contact. “Morning, Tommy, dear Child. Breakfast time.”

And in his infinite amounts of sleepy wisdom, he comes up with the most eloquent response; “Fuck.”

A melodic laugh fills the room. It’s Wilbur’s, and it sounds something like music, something like genuine interest. Tommy smiles, too. It’s infectious. “C’mon,” Wilbur says, holding out a hand to Tommy. “Get up. We’ve lots of work to do today.”

Tommy waves off his hand and stands on his own. “Fuck work.” 

“Aww,” Wilbur chuckles. “No. Let’s go.”

Breakfast is, also, toast. This time only three of them crowd around the little table. Phil greets him with a smile, already dressed for the day ahead, and Wilbur makes a comment about the weather. It’s all far too much, far too early. 

Tommy feels about ready to punch something.

He eats three pieces of toast and drinks some tea instead. Phil and Wilbur keep up a light conversation before they get to talking about what needs to be done- “You and Tommy are raking the macadamia's today- make sure to show him how it’s done- and I’m moving sheep on the opposite side.”

“I was thinking you could tell Tommy about the history along the way?” Phil adds. “Techno’s out doing classes until twelve, then he’ll be here and I’ll get Tommy to help him with the garden.”

Great. A day of work!

“Sounds good, Phil,” Wilbur smiles. “Any chance I can get off early this afternoon? Some friends and I were thinking of going out.” 

Phil hums. “It means more work tomorrow.”

“Our favourite band is playing,” Wilbur responds. “It would be rude not to go. I already got tickets and-“

“Sure, Wilbur, knock yourself out,” Phil chuckles. “I’m sure Tommy will lighten your workload tomorrow.”

Wilbur glances at him. “Yeah, he’ll be working hard.”

Well  _ fuck.  _

-

There are three things that happen in the first half of his day. One, he learns that Macadamia nuts are difficult to rake when you have to manoeuvre the bundle of them around sheep shit. Two; He learns that the farm is old, and he doesn’t care all that much about how old it is. And Three- Wilbur’s definitely his favourite so far. 

He hates the rakes, because they creak all the time. His back aches from bending over to sort the nuts out and push them all off the ground and into bags. But Wilbur passes him water (because Tommy, in the early morning, did  _ not  _ pack water, like the smart big man he is) and lets them have a snack break in between the two paddocks they have to rake today. 

“Here, try some of these,” Wilbur says, handing him a badly-opened bag of almonds. “I knew a girl in Germany who used to like these. Not her favourites, but she did like them. I think they’re pretty cool.”

Tommy tries one. They taste weird. Smokey, strong, and weird. He likes them- but not enough to admit to  _ Wilbur.  _ “What, were you two dating or something? Ew. That must’ve been so awkward for you.”

Wilbur laughs; “We were just friends!”

“Sure,” Tommy takes a handful of almonds. “Just ‘ _ friends’.”  _

“You’re the worst,” Wilbur says, but he has a smile on his face. “How do your parents deal with you?”

Tommy brushes the question off. “These nuts are weird. That girl must’ve been weird.”

“I think she’d like you,” Wilbur smiles. 

“Of course she would, Who doesn’t like me?” Tommy shoves a few of his gathered almonds into his mouth. “I’m Tommy Innit. Biggest man around.  _ Everyone  _ loves me.”

-

Lunch, quiet happily, is  _ not  _ toast. 

It’s roasted potato cut into slices made to mimic chips, coupled with peas and chicken. Techno eats with them, sipping a coffee, no food on his plate (aside from a few spare potato chips). “Where’s Phil?” Wilbur asks, sipping his own coffee. 

“Sheep,” Techno responds. 

“Oh, are there problems?” Wilbur asks.

“One of ‘em stole a lamb,” Techno responds. “He’s checkin’ which sheep the lamb belongs to.”

“Yeah, we-“ Tommy swallows the food in his mouth. “We fuckin’ saw some weird-ass sheep with a lamb ‘n it was all gross ‘n shit. Phil said he didn’t think it was the lamb’s mother.”

Techno grunts. “That’s the lamb.”

Wilbur’s fingers tap a tune on the table as he pours an ungodly amount of Tomato sauce onto his potatoes. “Are you tending to your precious garden this afternoon?” He asks. “Or do you have more classes?”

“Garden,” Techno responds. Tommy gets the idea he doesn’t like talking all that much. “Got a paper due tomorrow.”

“On what?” Wilbur trains a happy gaze on Techno, biting a potato chip. Techno leans back, sighing, and sips his own coffee as he stares towards the paddocks below the house and its small hill. 

“That book I was readin’,” Techno hums. “The one I told you about. The war one.”

“Really? I thought that was for fun,” Wilbur responds. “See, Tommy, real adults have things like schoolwork to do.”

“I’m sixteen, dipshit, I’ve had exams before,” Tommy responds. “Aced ‘Em, too.”

“If that statement is anything remotely like your statement about winning UNO, you’re screwed,” Wilbur chuckles. “ _ Royally  _ screwed.”

“Fuck you, Mr. I-like-yellow.”

“Actually, my last name is Soot,” Wilbur responds. “Wilbur Soot.”

“What? Like ash?” 

“Yeah, like  _ soot,”  _ Wilbur pushes his finished plate away. “Did Phil need help with the sheep?”

“He’ll be fine,” Techno responds. “Less people, less trouble.”

Eventually, Wilbur waves goodbye to the two, taking the rakes and some smelly fertiliser bags with him. Phil returns, directing Tommy to go with Techno to the small garden they have next to the house. Techno nudges a plate of food towards Phil with a nod and the man gives a soft smile in return before politely saying goodbye. 

“Don’t go  _ too _ hard on him!” Phil calls from the kitchen as Techno leads Tommy away. Techno grunts half-heartedly in response. 

Well,  _ fuck.  _

Any hope of a quiet afternoon is gone. 

The garden is, actually, very pretty. Something similar to the picture books he read as a child- there’s a cement-rock wall lining it, covered by the greens of bushes and occasionally there are brightly coloured flowers that peek out from small cracks in between the rocks. 

Little rows that are lined by bumps of dirt on either side decorate the insides of this marked-off square. There are small weeds poking their way through the earth, some trampled as they lay on the well-trodden path that makes its way through the middle, branching off from the entrance. 

“Here,” Techno grunts, handing him a pair of gloves and a watering can. “You’re goin’ to water all the plants on the left. I’m goin’ to weed them.” 

Tommy nods. 

“Then, we’re clearin’ out that,” Techno points to the right hand, back corner of the square, where what Tommy assumes is a thick layer of tangled weeds and bush covers the earth. “Got it?”

He nods again. Techno nods back, and they begin to work. Tommy fills the watering can using a tap that looks like it came from a victorian-day sink before beginning at the far end and working his way towards the entrance, watering horizontally along the vertical strips. 

The sun beats down on them, hard enough to make Tommy’s head pound, but not hard enough to make his watering futile. It’s a methodical rhythm of making sure he steps in-between the rows, bringing the watering can along with him, and making his way back across the rows in the same manner. Weeding, as Tommy picks up from glances, consists mostly of Techno being fussy about the little sprouts that pop up. 

Half of the things he digs up Tommy doesn’t even realise are  _ there _ . In some places, he digs up entire bulbs, chucking them to the side in one big heap. 

They work in continuous silence; one Tommy takes as Techno being  _ very  _ into his work. Whereas Wilbur often took breaks to point out sheep or birds to Tommy or frantically type something on his phone, Tommy found that Techno was either less vocal about the interesting things he saw around the place, or he simply didn’t care enough to share. 

Tommy didn’t care either way. 

“Alright,” Techno says, standing up as Tommy finishes the last of his watering, stretching out his back and legs. He motions towards the patch of flora. “How do you think we’re goin’ to handle that?” 

“Rip it out?” Tommy tries. 

“Rip it out,” Techno repeats. There’s a hint of a smile on his face- the simple tug of his lips upwards is enough for Tommy to assume he’s excited for the task. “Grab a shovel.”

On the far right wall lays two shovels that look just as worn as Tommy feels. He grabs the taller one, handing the other to Techno, who digs it into the earth near one of the bigger plants. He fights with the plant for a bit, wrapping his hand around the base, and presses down on the shovel while he pulls with the hand around the base. 

Dirt goes  _ everywhere _ . The shoveled dirt flies upwards, bugs scatter everywhere, and it’s quite possibly the least elegant thing Tommy has ever witnessed. Techno manages to keep his ground and remains standing, a big,  _ big  _ plant-weed in one hand, and a shovel in the other. He chucks the plant into the pile he made while weeding and raises an eyebrow towards Tommy. 

“What the fuck was that,” Tommy says, quite simply, because it’s all he can think to say. 

“Uhhh…” Techno glances down to the hole his shovel-and-pull method made. “Rippin’ it out?”

Tommy sputters. “But-what- why like  _ that? _ That’s so messy, ‘n- what the fuck.”

Techno blinks at him. Tommy feels vaguely like a child in a hospital, asking his mother why they were there, only to be shushed and told that he’d understand, someday, when he was older. 

“Because that’s how we get ‘em out?” Techno responds. “You got a better way?”

“Well, no, but-“ 

“Exactly,” Techno says. “You’ve got to get all the roots out, too. Get on with it, kid.”

“I fucking hate this,” Tommy grumbles. 

Techno grunts. That’s the end of that, then. Tommy digs his shovel into the earth, fights with the idea of reaching his hand into the bug-infested plantation, and ultimately loses said battle. It’s not quite as dramatic as Techno’s- he has to dig out the other half of the root which he split with his shovel, which definitely makes it lose some drama points- but it’s just as dirty. Bugs scatter about, pushed to leave by the disruption to their natural habitat, and dirt flies up as he tugs the plant from the earth. 

Techno has the audacity to  _ laugh _ . Or, what Tommy assumes is a laugh, based on his new knowledge of Techno’s many exhales (thank fuck for that game of UNO, even if Tommy won’t admit it aloud). He sends an angry glance towards the farmer, which is partially diminished by the fact he’s squatting with his hands in the dirt and clutching the white roots of some weed he just dug up, and stands so he can throw said weeds onto the pile. 

“Tommy,” Techno says. “Watch.” 

He repeats the motion of digging up a weed, but leaves the shovel dangling once it’s stable. “You’ve got to check when you grab the plant,” Techno grabs ahold of the base of the plant. “Give it a tug and press on the shovel. You’ll hear or feel it snap if you’ve got it buried in the root.”

“I knew that,” Tommy said. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“Really?” Techno pulls this weed from the earth, throwing it to the side. “Cause it looked like you were havin’ some trouble.”

“I wasn’t,” Tommy says. “So you’ve just wasted time.”

“Well,” Techno shrugs. “I wouldn’t have wasted time if you did it right.”

“Fuck you.”

Techno pulls some of the smaller weeds from the dirt surrounding the bigger ones. The conversation ends there. 

-

They have toast for dinner. Again.

“Did you two get much done?” Phil asks, plate finished, TV remote sitting not too far out of reach. 

“Cleared out the weed patch,” Techno says. 

“And we did watering,” Tommy adds. “And I was very good at weeding. I already knew how to do it.”

Techno shoots him a look. “Sure you did, Tommy.”

Phil gives a soft chuckle. “That’s good,” He says. “Did either of you hear from Wilbur before he left? I meant to ask if the wetlands paddocks did end up flooding.” 

Tommy shakes his head. Techno stays silent- but somehow, Phil seems to gather an answer from Techno’s slight movement. “Well, that’s a shame,” He says. “I’ll check them tomorrow. There’s no use doinh anything about them now.”

“Where’d Will go?” Techno asks.

“Out with some friends, I think,” Phil responds. “How was class?”

“Good,” Techno responds, gathering their empty plates. “Dream’s still tryin’ to organise that fight.”

“Which one?” 

“Dodgeball,” Techno says. “For the end of year.”

Phil snorts. “Me and Wilbur will be there to see you win, then.”

-

The first week follows that format. He rakes the fields in the mornings with Wilbur, and helps Techno in the garden in the afternoon. On Thursday and Tuesday, he winds up helping Phil herd sheep, and decides that- once again- sheep are fucking disgusting and he hates them with a passion. Phil and him also take a trip to the wetlands paddocks, and they find that aside from some nearby puddles and slightly higher water levels, there’s no flooding. They eat toast for breakfast and dinner, but lunch is always a hot meal. 

He gets into the routine of it all. On Saturday, instead of staying for the usual after-dinner game, he retreats to his sleepout early. 

“Tubbo, my friend!” He greets, pressing a phone to his ear. “How’s the farm?”

“Good!” Tubbo says. “How’s yours?”

“It sucks,” Tommy grumbles. “There’s a guy named Wilbur and he’s a bitch. He’s not even a proper fucking farmer,  _ and _ all he does is whine about how childish I am. How’re your farmers?”

Tubbo snorts. “Well, if it helps, there’s only two weeks and one day left to go,” He says. “And my farmers are nice! I’ve met Eret, and Captain, and apparently that kid Ranboo isn’t too far away from here. There’s also a new worker arriving soon- apparently she comes from Germany!” 

“Wilbur used to know someone from Germany,” Tommy says. “Where are you staying?”

“Oh, in the main house,” Tubbo says. There’s some rustling, and Tommy assumes that Tubbo’s sitting down now. “They’ve got a nice little room upstairs. There are three more beds, cause y’know those other two were supposed to come.”

“But didn’t, yeah,” Tommy picks at the floor as he slides down. “They fucking sent me to a farm with a sleepout. It has two bunk beds- what the fuck am I supposed to do with four mattresses? Make a pillow fort or some shit?”

“Pillow fort!” Tubbo says.”Dude! We should make a pillow fort some time.”

“Pff- sure, Tubbo,” Tommy chuckles. “Still doesn’t fix the fact my fucking sleeping arrangements are shit.”

“Sarah doesn’t like you,” Tubbo says, making Tommy scoff. “She probably sent you to the farm she knew you’d like least just to piss you off.”

“Teachers shouldn’t have a fucking bias,” Tommy grumbles.

“ _ You _ shouldn’t have thrown a chair off the porch,” Tubbo points out. “Especially not after she told you what would happen. And after you broke a sewing machine.”

“I didn’t break it, it fucked itself over.”

“Mhm,” Tubbo chuckles. “Sure.”

They sit in silence over the phone, Tommy watching the sunset through one of the open windows. He should close the curtains, but he can’t be bothered moving from the badly-carpeted floor of this rectangular sleepout. Tubbo shifts on the other end, the phone picking up his movements. 

“Y’know, I think when we get back,” Tommy begins. “I wanna sleep. For, like, a fuckton of time. Days. Months.”

Tubbo laughs; “Just hibernate?”

“Exactly, I’m gonna be a fucking bear,” Tommy says. “These guys are crazy. ‘N there’s no real breaks, yeah? Techno’s fucking crazy. He works for, like, four hours straight. At Least Wilbur and Phil will stop for like, three minutes, to breathe.”

“Also! Wilbur never fucking sweats,” Tommy says. “Or gets wet. I’ve never seen the dude get wet. And it’s been raining like all hell, Tubbo.”

“Same here,” Tubbo says. “Weird.”

“We live in the same nation, dipshit, it’s not weird,” Tommy responds.

“No, I mean it’s weird that Wilbur doesn’t get rained on,” Tubbo exhales in his usual ‘oh my god, you’re so stupid’ way. “Maybe you’re just not looking when he is.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” Tommy says. “Of course I’m looking. I’m observant as shit.”

Tubbo laughs. Tommy can feel himself smile, too. “I can’t wait for these next two weeks to be over,” Tommy says. “Three weeks is far too fucking long.”

“It’s to get into the experience,” Tubbo says. “Get past the adjustment period and all that.”

“Fuck adjusting,” Tommy responds. “I adjust immediately. Everyone should be like me.”

“Ew, that would be the worst.”

“Fuck you.”

-

Wilbur knocks on his door.

Wilbur, of all people, wakes him up. For a moment he stares at the bottom of the bunk above him and contemplates remaining in his warm bed, but then Wilbur’s opening the fucking door, and now Tommy  _ has _ to get up.

“What the fuck,” Tommy says. 

“No good morning? Not even a hello? Wow,” Wilbur gives him a smug smile. “I’m offended. Today’s youth are so  _ rude. _ ”

“You just-“ Tommy waves at the door. “Jesus, don’t you know about personal space?”

“C’mon, we both know you weren’t naked,” Wilbur shrugs. “And we need to get up early. Phil’s agreed to take us into town later cause Techno has to go to a fucking… teachers meeting.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow at that. 

“Get up,” Wilbur repeats. 

“I’m not fucking changing in front of you.”

Wilbur steps back outside, shuts the door, and calls; “There you go, Child!”

“Fuck you!” He calls back. 

-

The day follows its usual plan, except for Techno’s garden being blocked off by a locked, rickety gate that he comes face-to-face with shortly before lunch. Techno, who he hasn’t seen all day, and who doesn’t show up to lunch. He’s about to ask- not because he  _ cares,  _ just because he’d like to know if he’s actually getting the afternoon off or if there’s something else planned- when Phil takes a phone call. 

Tommy does his best to tune it out. It’s mostly mundane, usual talk, until Phil mentions his name and something to do with Wilbur. Which he misses, because he wasn’t listening. So the lesson he learns is that he  _ should  _ have eavesdropped on that conversation. 

Wilbur, who basically inhaled his plate of mixed vegetables and chicken, pushes Phil’s chair out with his foot. “Was that Techno?”

Phil nods, sitting down. “He’s just letting me know what time I need to be there.”

“What’s the deal?” Wilbur asks. “Did he do a bad thing?”

“No, no,” Phil laughs. “It’s a farewell event.”

That makes sense. Tommy has about a week left after this before his school is let out for the year. Except, unlike Techno, who’s graduating this year,  _ he _ still has three fucking years left of this shit. Unfortunately. 

“So you’ll be dropping Tommy and I off in town while you go to that, right?” Wilbur asks. “Otherwise I can drive out with him later on.”

“No, no, I can take you,” Phil says. “And I’ll pick you up afterwards. You’ve got my number, right Will?”

Wilbur hums, making Phil nod. It’s a mutual understanding of  _ something,  _ and Tommy’s pretty sure that it’s a mutual understanding that they do have each other’s number. “Give Tommy it, too, just in case he runs off and needs me to pick him up.”

“Will do, Phil.”

-

Wilbur leaves him to get ‘properly dressed’, so he takes a shower in the shitty sheep-shed shower, keeping a close eye on the several demonic spiders that hide around the many shady corners of the place. Then, he changes into the clothes he came in, spraying a healthy amount of deodorant and then opening a door. And a window. Neither of them stop the smell from lingering, so Tommy simply decides that he’s going to have to either suck it up or sit outside. 

He decides to sit at the handmade picnic table on his porch, outside one of his windows, with his phone. Which has no signal. So he spends the time writing a basic outline of his days and the events that have happened- small things like his talk with Tubbo, the weather (that he remembers), and Wilbur’s disgusting food choices- in the past few days. Then he moves onto broad things- what he remembers of the farm’s history, how to rake up nuts, the days that he helps Phil instead of Techno. 

By the time he’s done that, Wilbur helps himself to the seat across from Tommy. “Hey, give me your phone,” He says. “I’m gonna give you me and Phil’s numbers.”

Tommy passes his phone over wordlessly, watching the sun dip over the tops of the bamboo that lines each paddock. After a few minutes of furious typing, Wilbur hands it back, a smile on his face. “What?” Tommy asks, eyebrow raised. “What’re you smilin’ about, bitch?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Wilbur looks out towards the paddocks, shifting so he can sit comfortably. “So, Tommy, do you have any spending money?”

“Are you trying to mug me? Why the fuck do you wanna know?” Tommy asks, slipping his phone into his pocket. Wilbur laughs, shaking his head to readjust his hair. “Yeah, I’ve got heaps of fuckin’ money.  _ Loads _ .” 

“Mhm,” Wilbur responds. “Bring it along. I’m gonna teach you the art of buying snacks so you don’t have to keep eating mine.”

Phil greets them an hour later from inside a blue rental car, looking… decent. It’s not exactly what Tommy would call formal, a simple shirt with some print Tommy doesn’t bother to read and what looks like jeans, but Phil looks happy and Tommy’s never been to parent evenings or seen his parents get ready for one so he supposes it works. 

He brings his wallet, phone, and student ID just in case. Wilbur claims the front seat with a simple “I’m older!” And locks the door, leaving Tommy in the backseat, alone. 

“So where the fuck are we going?” Tommy asks, watching Phil navigate the windy driveway with relative ease. 

“Town for you two, Techno’s school for me,” Phil says, turning down the road and towards the motorway. “Try not to wander too far, please, and I’ll get Techno to call you when we’re going to pick you up.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dadza,” Wilbur responds. “We’ll be responsible, promise.”

“Don’t take Tommy into a bar, Will, I don’t want the school on my case,” Phil adds. “He’s sixteen. Just remember that.”

“I’ve been in a fucking bar before,” Tommy says.

“Well, that’s great, but not here,” Phil shoots him a glance through the front mirror. “You’re a child, mate. And as far as I remember the school said nothing illegal.”

“It’s only illegal if they find out!” Wilbur responds, throwing his hands up. “Besides-“

“Wilbur, that’s  _ not  _ my point,” Phil responds. “Just- please, don’t do anything stupid. I don’t want Tommy’s parents to complain.”

Tommy snickers, looking out the window at the farm-scape that they pass; “Don’t worry, they won’t.” 

A paddock of cows whizzes past, followed by some sheep, and a field of corn. Wilbur hums, turning the radio on and to a low level, changing his humming to fit the song. Phil occasionally drums along on the steering wheel as they take a somewhat sharp turn and the city comes into view. 

“This is a fuckin odd car,” Tommy comments, deciding blue doesn’t fit them as he watches the car’s reflection on the car next to them. “Why’d you decide to get this car? Should’ve gone for a better fuckin’ colour. Like red.”

Wilbur shoots him a look this time. “It’s a rental.”

“Our other car got hit,” Phil says. “Not too badly, but it did need a service. So we’ve got a rental while we wait.”

“Fucking- rental cars are shit,” Tommy decides.

“It’s actually pretty decent,” Wilbur shrugs. “Minus the fact we can’t fit half of what we usually can, and it doesn’t go off-road.”

In the end, Phil pulls over to briefly park across the road from a grocery store. “You two have fun,” He says. “I should be back around… ten? Ten thirty?”

“Get Tech to call,” Wilbur says, waving his hand. “I’m not fussed. It’s good bonding time.”

Phil nods, glancing at the clock, then his phone, now back to the road. “Well, have fun,” He says. “You have money, right Will? Or do you need-“

“Phil, we’ll be fine,” Tommy says, giving him a smile. Wilbur nods, echoing his sentiment of being okay, and Phil nods to himself, taking a deep breath. 

“Okay,” Phil says. Then; “Okay. Don’t go into shady alleyways- and contact me  _ immediately _ if anything goes wrong, okay, Will? Tommy, do you have my number?”

“He’s got both our numbers, now go, Phil,” Wilbur waves with his hands. “We’ll be right here when you come back. Go.”

“Okay- have fun, mates.”

With that, the car’s struggling engine boots up and drives back down the relatively quiet main road of the small town. Wilbur turns to him. “C’mon, child,” He says, then extends his hand; “Hold an adult’s hand while we cross.”

“I’m not a child, I can cross by myself,” Tommy says, folding his arms. “I’ve been in a town alone before, Wilbur.”

“Fine then, suit yourself,” Wilbur shrugs, beginning to cross the now-empty road. “But just know if you get hit it’s not my fault!”

Tommy follows after him. “Fuck you.”

“Awww,” Wilbur chuckles. “You’re like a Little Brother. All pouty and shit.”

“You’re annoying as fuck,” Tommy says. “How does anyone stand to be around you.”

“The same can be said for you,” Wilbur responds as the blinding white light of the grocery hits their eyes, surrounding them. “You like fruit?”

“Yeah?” Tommy responds. “Why?”

Wilbur leads him through the isles, around to a section of freshly packaged fruit and vegetables, scanning the section of coconut shavings and fruit salads. “How about a late-night snack?”

Tommy shrugs. “Sure.”

They decide on one box of coconut and one box of fruit salad before moving to the next few isles. “Phil will literally kill me if I let you eat any of these,” Wilbur comments, standing in front of the sweets aisle with Tommy. “Especially while we’re working.”

“Why?” Tommy asks, considering a pack of protein bars. 

“Well, the bars are okay, but the other stuff- like sweets and shit, that’s just gonna give you a what, two-second burst of energy before you collapse?” Wilbur shrugs. “Him and Techno know more about it than I do. They’ve been doing this longer.”

Tommy nods and lets Wilbur lead him down another aisle, grabbing the pack of protein bars before they go. They scan a few more options before coming to the almonds and assorted nuts, which Wilbur scans with great detail. “You like the snack I have, right? The Tamari almonds?”

Just the name has Tommy tasting the Smokey, savoury taste of the almonds in his mouth. “Yeah, they’re alright,” He comments. “Bit weird, though.”

“Mhm,” Wilbur plucks a bag from the isle. “There. Your own bag, cause I’m not wasting my limited supply on you, little shit.”

“Fuck off, I’m a growing adult,” Tommy says. “You offered them to me. It’s your fault.”

There’s a soft laugh shared between them. A few more snacks make it into their basket- some biscuits, a citrus slice, and a fruit-nut mix. “I’ll pay,” Wilbur says, stepping in as Tommy desperately searches for his wallet. “My treat.”

“Thanks,” Tommy says, shifting. “I’ll pay you back.”

Wilbur tilts his head. “What part of ‘my treat’ didn’t you hear? I’m buying you this, dipshit. No payback. Besides, it’s mostly cause I don’t want you stealing my stuff anymore.”

They make their way out of the store and back across the road. Even with the streetlights spilling golden light onto the paths and roads, it’s still dark. Along the edge of the sidewalk, just before the parking lot of another store, are raised vents one could use as a bench if they wanted to. They are roughly the length of a bench, and on either side, trees that look half dead separate them from each other. 

Wilbur checks his phone, humming. “It’s a while till Phil picks us up,” He says. “Wanna sit and have that late-night snack?”

“Sure,” Tommy agrees, sitting himself next to Wilbur on the vent-bench. He picks at a cut in his pants, letting the two of them sit in silence as Wilbur pulls out the coconut and fruit. 

“How’re you liking the farm?” Wilbur asks.

Tommy turns towards the sky. There are fewer stars visible here, with only the occasional bright ones shining in the sky above, unlike the farm- the sky there is filled to the brim with little, shining sprinkles. Looking up, at the farm, is as if you can see the edge of the universe, as if it is close enough to touch. It’s… nice, actually. Comforting, in a weird way. 

He hums; “It’s nice. You lot are weird as shit, though.” 

Wilbur laughs, loud and familiar. “Yeah, figured you’d say that,” The man responds. “You’ll get used to it. We’re like… a ragtag family.”

“Pff, yeah. Phil’s fussing made that clear.”

“He cares about us,” Wilbur takes some watermelon from the fruit salad, gesturing for Tommy to help himself. “I’ve been a lot of places, but I’ve got to say, Phil’s place is probably the first time I’ve considered settling down.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “Where’ve you been?”

“Oh, all over,” Wilbur responds. “I went around Europe for a while, which was fun. I’ve also been to Australia, and India, and the likes. Travelling is- sort of something I enjoy. I just didn’t want to be stuck in England forever.”

“And now I’m here, so,” Wilbur laughs. “Yeah. I’m here, and I’m not sure I want to go anywhere else. If I do, I’ll probably come back eventually. Can’t stay away for too long, all my friends and family are here.”

The blonde nods. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Two boys, on a vent-bench, underneath a faintly glowing streetlight, eating fruit together. It’s cold, but not overwhelming. Tommy leans against the elevated part of the parking lot, taking some fruit for himself. 

“What do you wanna do? When you get out of school?” Wilbur asks, adjusting his hair and beanie. 

The younger shrugs. “Whatever I want, I guess.”

“You don’t have a plan?” Wilbur asks.

“Nah,” Tommy watches a car speed past them. “Tubbo and I might go to uni together. Or flat together and go to different universities. I dunno, but I definitely want to move away from home.”

“I’m sure Phil’d love to have you here, if you’d like,” Wilbur says. “And- even if Phil can’t house you, I’ll probably have a house by that point. My point was- you can come here. Y’know, if you want. For a gap year, or something.”

That sounds… nice, oddly. Tommy hums. “Yeah, I might.”

And it feels like he really, genuinely, might. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my past self oversharing in their daily journal. Real MVP 
> 
> For context this is an actual thing my school does and it was epic, even if i feel brainwashed. thats normal when your school is literally a cult i guess ? 
> 
> Remember to love each other and yourselves <3


	2. Week Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When i say gathering ammo, i mean moving the dodgeballs to their side of the court <3

Sunday is considerably more calm - Wilbur and him finish one paddock in the morning and spend the afternoon relaxing with Phil and Techno. Then it’s back to Monday- an early start, this time with Phil coming out on his quad bike used for around-the-farm traveling, and they head towards the far end to rake. Wilbur informs him they have five or six paddocks left before the end of their rotation, which Tommy decides is useless information because he does care. 

The rhythm of raking is familiar- mentally draw a circle around the outskirts of the tree, the tips touching the points on the ground where the shadows of the leaves are longest. Then, half this circle and rake the nuts along this line into their half of the circle- after that, bring the nuts on the outskirts of the circle inward and rake them down with the occasional outward rake on either side. Repeat on the other side, then move trees after shoveling those nuts into one of the available bags. 

After a week of doing this, it’s almost second nature. He knows to tilt the rake and use the shorter edge to push macadamia's around the obstacles they encounter, he knows which paddocks are best for raking easily and which will make his life hell, and he knows how to work around smaller trees, lower trees, trees with roots above ground, and trees with shot tons of leaves below them. He’s, unfortunately, an expert. 

This, probably, is why _this_ session of raking goes by so quickly. He blinks and it’s 12:15, and Wilbur is putting their rakes in the next paddock and the filled bags at the entrance of their current one, calling for Tommy to follow him back to the main house for lunch. 

“Did you hear Phil go past at all?” Wilbur asks as they make their way along a flat hill, past a flock of vaguely-angry-looking turkeys. “I didn’t.”

Tommy thinks about it. In his mindless passing of time, he didn’t hear Phil pass their paddock, and the rumbling of the engine would’ve been nearly unmissable. “No, don’t think I did.”

Wilbur frowns. “Let’s check home. If he’s not there I’ll come back out or Techno can take his horse.”

He nods. 

The main house is quiet - a good indication that maybe Phil isn’t there, but inside the fire is going. There’s a small blue box by the fireplace, and Techno is on the couch with a book. 

Just as Wilbur turns around to search for Phil, the man comes downstairs with a blanket in his arms and a bottle in the other. He gives them a greeting smile and makes his way towards the box beside the fire, Tommy’s curiosity getting the best of him as he follows the man. 

“A lamb?” Tommy says. “What-“

“They almost froze,” Phil says, quiet and gentle, placing the bottle down as he unfolds the blanket and begins to inch it over the box and down around the lamb, tucking it into their nearly-still limbs. “Mother abandoned them or something while I was moving paddocks. I’ll get them warmed up and take them around to the sheep I moved yesterday.”

“It’s…” Tommy hesitates to say cute. Sheep are disgusting, lambs included, but when they’re half-heartedly shivering in a blue box, covered by a worn red blanket, they have some redeeming qualities. He settled for the obvious; “...shivering.”

“That’s a good sign,” Wilbur says, sitting on the floor in front of the box. “Are you feeding it?” 

“Could you? They seem to like you better,” Phil chuckles, moving to the kitchen with the bottle, appearing to fill it with some sort of powder and milk. 

“Sure,” Wilbur says. “Hey, Tommy, ever held a lamb before?”

“Fuck no,” Tommy says, still staring at the little creature. It has incredibly wide eyes, though half-lidded now, and its wool is barely more than fuzz. He’s glad that he can shift the blanket to cover the yellow goo matting the fur, presumably from the same method of birthing Tommy had witnessed the aftermath of just over a week before. 

“Would you like to?” Phil offers, switching the kettle on to boil. “It’s safe, you know. Let Wilbur feed him and then you can have a go if you’d like.”

Tommy nods distractedly, focusing on the lamb’s subtle glance towards Wilbur as the man begins to gently tug the blanket around the lamb and pull it from the box. It’s so _small._ Tommy’s positive it’s entire leg could be broken by simply too hard of a step on the ground, it looks so frail. Wilbur hums to it, cooing, as he tucks it under his arm and allows it to stand as well as it can with the blanket, taking the bottle Phil offers to him. 

Phil takes a seat next to Techno, nudging his son and whispering, but Tommy can’t find it in him to listen in on _what_ they’re whispering, even if he figures he should. Wilbur places the bottle’s suckle at the lamb’s lips, and the little one begins to suck immediately and desperately.

“He’s tugging quite hard,” Wilbur says, frowning. “How long was he at the paddock for?”

“Can’t have been more than a night,” Phil says. 

“Well, he’s eating like his life depends on it,” Wilbur says. “Is his mother alright?”

Tommy can hear Phil’s frown; “Yeah, she’s alive, but I’m starting to think she isn’t producing milk very well.”

“Second one this season,” Wilbur comments. “Oh well, we can check on him. Hopefully, the mother begins to produce more.”

As Wilbur continues to feed the little white, frail lamb, Tommy turns to look towards the fire. It laps at the window, leaving black marks that last for mere seconds behind it, but ultimately it’s not strong enough to burn the marks into the glass door. He hears Techno turn a page in a book and turns to check what book it is, letting Techno show him the title. 

“Why the fuck are you reading that?” Tommy says, without actually comprehending the title itself.

“Dodgeball,” Techno says. “I have a week to prepare. I’m not one for losing.”

“Dodgeball? You’re _reading_ for Dodgeball?” 

“Tactics,” Techno responds. “I go into battle with a plan.”

“Fuck plans,” Tommy announces. “Improvising always works.”

Techno hums. 

“Books can be helpful,” Phil comments, shifting on the couch. “He’s not wrong for doing some research.”

“Phil, Toms is like, six,” Wilbur says. “He doesn’t know how to read.”

“I do!” Tommy defends. “I’m not fuckin’ dyslexic, that’s Tubbo. I _can_ read!” 

He gets his Wilbur laugh, and that’s what matters. Then, as Phil takes the offered empty bottle and heads back to the kitchen to clean it, Wilbur hands Tommy the small lamb. The blanket is far too big for the little one, but Tommy does his best to bundle it together in his arms and hold the lamb. 

The lamb looks directly at him. “That’s- it’s looking all weird like at me,” Tommy says, then, to the lamb; “What the fuck are you looking at?” 

Phil gives a soft laugh. “He’s interested, you’re a giant to him, mate.”

“I’m normal-sized, he’s just fucking small,” Tommy responds without breaking eye contact. “Are all lambs this small?”

“Not from my experience, no, just the ones who aren’t feeding well or haven’t eaten in a while,” Phil responds. “Though he was small from birth if I remember right. He might just be a small lamb.”

Tommy grins at him, watching the lamb put his head back down and begin to drift to sleep. He looks up to find Phil smiling, either at him or the lamb, and regardless of who it is he smiles back. “put him back in the box so he can sleep,” Phil suggests, moving to take the lamb from Tommy’s lap.

-

“Tubbo, Tubbo holy _shit,”_ His best friend has been on call with him for a little over ten seconds, which is the same amount of time it’s been since Phil let him leave to have the afternoon off since Techno was training. “I held a fucking lamb, Tubbo.”

“Aww really?” Tubbo responds. “Lucky! They just have chickens and cows here.”

“It was so _fucking_ small, big man,” Tommy continues, sitting on the picnic table and desperately trying to minimise the creaking it makes as he tries to take his gumboots off. “It was all big eyes and shit.”

“Lambs are adorable,” Tubbo comments. “Lucky.”

Tommy chuckles, trying to swallow the smile on his face. His leg taps against the floor with its usual twitch. “How’s the farm? Is the German person there?”

“Oh yeah! Her name is Niki, she’s really nice,” Tubbo responds. Tommy can hear him shuffle the sheets on the other side, the same way he does in person- he must be picking at the duvet, making it rise and fall by pinching it between his fingers and lifting. “She does a lot more with the bees, though. Apparently she isn’t new? She’s been here before, it’s just that now she actually has a visa again.”

Tommy hums. “Niki, eh? And she’s a woman?"

“Yeah,” Tubbo chuckles. “She’s nice! I work with her in the afternoons- I was just with her before, actually. She was telling me about flowers and collecting honey.”

“Sounds right up your alley,” Tommy says.

“It was _so_ cool, Tommy,” Tubbo responds. “Are you liking the Farm a Little more?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says on autopilot, watching Phil and Wilbur desperately try to herd sheep in the paddock below. Those are the ones without lambs in the mix, the group that didn’t lamb either due to age or infertility. “Yeah, it’s better. Three weeks is still a bullshit amount of time, though.”

“Wilbur took me grocery shopping which was fucking weird,” Tommy continues. “But I guess it was… fun. Yeah, it was kinda fun.”

Tubbo lets them sit in silence, nothing but the sound of his fiddling echoing through the speakers and the stubborn noises of the sheep in the paddock below to fill it. “Wasn’t there another person? Like, a son that Sarah mentioned Phil having?” 

“Oh, yeah, Techno,” Tommy blinks back into the conversation. “He’s got a dodgeball match in a few days. Dunno how long. He’s pretty committed to it, though.”

“Who’s he fighting?” 

“Uh…. some guy named Dream, which is a really fucking weird name, but I mean,” Tommy shrugs, and realises Tubbo can’t see him; “I mean, Phil named his son Techno, so they can’t judge.”

Tubbo laughs. “Dream is a pretty weird name.”

“Yeah, _really_ fucking weird.”

“Hey, didn’t someone in our class go to a farm with someone named Dream?” Tubbo asks, adjusting the phone against his ear. “Wasn’t it like… I dunno. But someone did, right? That’s a weird coincidence.”

“If it’s the same Dream that’s fine, there’s no way I’ll actually _see_ whoever it is.”

“Still, that’s pretty weird,” Tubbo says. “Sarah Granison really didn’t think that through.”

“Yeah, fuck her. She’s a bitch.”

-

_Nine days in._ That’s what he has written down in his stupid notes. _Nine days in, and_ \- and what? The farm feels nice? _‘Fuck you Ms. Granison I like it here?’_

The blank piece of paper mocks him. What’s the point? He’s going to present to a crowd of disinterested people, and no one he _cares_ about will be there, other than Tubbo- and honestly, he’s going to have every last school day _and_ the holidays available to tell Tubbo about the experience. It doesn’t matter. 

He shuts the book, holding his head in his hands. This would be so much easier if the school could recognise that yeah, his parents _do_ pay tuition, but they didn’t exactly sign up to be so _involved._ Hell, the only reason they seemed vaguely interested in _this_ was that it was two weeks where they didn’t have to put up with him. 

“Tommy,” Techno startles Tommy from his thoughts, bringing his attention to a lovely bay stallion with a white star marking on its head and little white socks on its feet that Techno sits on top of, looking like a prince leading his men to war. Techno swings down, coming to stand in front of him. “What are you doing?”

This is the most Techno had ever spoken to Tommy outside of asking him to do farm work. “I’m-“ Tommy looks down at his book, the spread-out pens, and his phone. He sighs; “Doing schoolwork.” 

From above him, Techno shifts awkwardly. “Uh- can I?” He motions to the other side of the picnic table, and Tommy nods, watching as he sits down. “What kind of schoolwork?”

Internally, Tommy is narrowing his eyes. There’s no fucking way Techno just up and decided to start talking to him, not out of the blue like this. _Someone_ has put him up to this. Regardless, he decides to go along with it; “ _‘Recounting my experiences’_ is what they call it. It’s basically a fucking diary.”

“It’s bullshit, and the teacher didn’t explain _any_ of it well,” Tommy grumbles, shifting his book. “And I’m not gonna do it, cause fuck it, but I was… thinkin’ bout doing it. Maybe. I dunno.”

Techno nods, turning to check where his horse is. The horse has its nose to the ground, tail swishing back and forth rhythmically. Tommy turns his gaze towards the house, finding smoke pouring from the chimney above- which means the kitchen-dining-room-living-room will be warm, thankfully. 

Techno clears his throat; “Uh, Phil told me to ask if you’d like to come to my dodgeball duel?” He says, not meeting Tommy’s eyes. 

Right, so _that’s_ the point of the conversation. Phil. “Yeah, sure,” Tommy says. “Why the fuck are you doing it?”

“Uhhh…” Techno shrugs. “End of year?”

“It’s against a guy named Dream, right? Is everyone at your fucking school named weird-ass names?” Putting his pens atop his book, Tommy pulls his feet into the chair and leans back against the window. 

“Well, uh…” Techno’s brow furrows as he thinks, watching a place on the table with intent. “Uhhh- there’s Dream’s friend Sapnap, who’s in the class below us, and Skeppy, and his friend Bad- those are all, I think. I might be- uhhh… Eret’s kind of a weird name, so I guess he counts?”

“What the fuck,” Tommy responds. “The country- country people got weird-ass names.”

Techno shrugs, leaving that part of the conversation; “So you’re… gonna come? It’s on Thursday.”

It’s a redundant question. Techno could just get Phil to force Tommy to come along- he is obligated to, technically, because the school can’t let him be without supervision. Still, he answers. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “I’m excited to see you beat someone’s ass at Dodgeball.”

Phil calls for Techno to come in and help him with something not long after they fall into silence, which leaves Tommy with his homework again. It’s stupid as all hell, because it’s not even _homework,_ it’s more… _farm journalism._ And it’s redundant. And he hates it. 

But that’s nothing new. 

What _is_ new is that when he thinks about what to write down, how to finish off the sentence ‘ _nine days in, and…’_ he knows exactly what to write. So he packs away the book, the pens, whatever else (it’s not really packing because he just shoves it back in his bag and does his best to make it fit, but it works) and heads off to dinner. 

He’s warm, both inside and out. Maybe the farms alright, when it comes down to it. 

-

Wednesday is when things change. It makes sense because Thursday is Techno’s 1v1 duel. 

It changes because he and Wilbur finish the last of the paddocks that day. It changes because Phil takes Tommy to the sheep shed, and leads him to the shower in the left-hand corner, and opens the door next to it instead.

It changes because Tommy gets to see a whole fucking kitchen hidden in the side of the sheep-shearing shed. 

“Welcome to where the real magic happens, mate,” Phil says, turning the lights on and washing his hands in the nearby sink. “Make sure to clean your hands before you come in - and there are some shoes at the proper entrance that I’ll get you to wear, hold on a sec.”

Unlike his previous statements, Tommy does as told. Even if it is just because he’s sure that not washing his hands could get someone sick or killed, he’s feeling generous. When Phil hands him slippers, he grumbles, but puts the footwear on. 

“Will might join us later,” Phil says. “He’s with a friend right now, but hopefully he’ll be back before dark.”

“Right, bitch boy’s jumped ship,” Tommy nods. “What the fuck are we doing here?”

“Sorting,” Phil replies, leading him out of the main kitchen area with heavy-duty machines, solid benchtops, and a colour scheme consisting of strong RGB colours on boards and greyscale benches and walls. Near the back, where there is a three-way fork in the path, they take a few steps up towards an elevated door on the left that Phil unlocks. He points to the other two doors, starting with the closest middle door; “That’s the bathroom, and that’s our storage room.” 

The room they enter into is less gray, and more light brown. There are old bookshelves on the wall to his far left, which hold an assortment of tools and plastic bags, a door in the left corner, and a bench spanning along the back wall before coming to an end where the door would swing if opened. In the middle of the room sits a large, macadamia-shell-covered machine. If it weren’t in the context of the farm’s product kitchen, Tommy would assume it were a weird torture device. 

Phil glosses over it completely. The bench at the back, which has office chairs tucked into it, holds two bags half-filled with de-husked, de-shelled macadamias. “You’re going to work on that bag, and I’ll do this one.”

Tommy copies him as he takes a seat, watching as Phil pushes the bag against the wall and, grabbing the half of the bag that isn’t full by the tips, flips the bag over to let the macadamias flow out easily. Then, he spreads them out across the table and seems to mull the batch over. 

“Okay, here, see,” Phil picks up a nut, twisting it to show Tommy the large bruise that rests on the side, browner than the usual pale white. “This goes in the small bowl. I’ll get you one in a minute, but because of the bruise, we can’t sell it- so it goes in the small bowl. The normal ones go in the big bowl, and the shells go in the bucket next to you.”

Sure enough, on Tommy’s right, there is a large green bucket already decently filled with shells. Phil grabs a steel bowl from a nearby pile of three and continues; “Put the big bowl on your lap, like this,” Phil says. It looks like an industrial mixing bowl, with a flatter bottom and lower sides. “And slide the normal ones in once you’ve picked out the ones we can’t sell. Slide the shells to the side, and you’ll be fine. Does that sound alright, mate?”

Tommy nods. “Uh- bag? What the fuck.”

Phil laughs, Tommy letting a smile grace his features. “I’ll do that for you, and get you a small bowl,” He stands, shifting the large bowl back onto the bench, before handing Tommy one of his own. “Here.”

In a more fluid, less-instructed motion, Phil flips Tommy’s bag onto the desk and lets the assortment of shells and macadamias litter the white benchtop. With a few more minutes, the two of them are set up, and Phil is sorting through his pile with record speed. 

Tommy… finds out that this is harder than Phil makes it look. Using his eyes to pick out the bad nuts, the shells, _and_ the nuts they can sell, before then moving them into the correct places and trying to make it look smooth? Yeah, his brain doesn’t seem to comprehend the part about making this organised _or_ smooth.

Several times he puts the shells into the good bowl and the nuts into the shell basket. Several times Phil corrects him with a chuckle, telling him it’s okay, that everyone makes those beginner mistakes- and every time, Tommy decides that this must be the most stupid, bullshit task he’s ever done, and they should just not do it. 

“This is making my fucking brain hurt, Phil,” Tommy complains as Phil finishes his first bag, and Tommy’s only a quarter way through his. “Can’t you get a fucking machine?”

“We could, but-“ Phil pauses, grabbing his second bag and heaving it onto the table, before fluidly pouring the nuts from his bowl into the bag they’d previously been in, and tying it with a rubber band. “-but it’s not that authentic, and it’s… a lot of money. Organic produce doesn’t exactly pay in the thousands, Tommy.”

“Fuck that,” Tommy says. “Just… be fucking built different. Get a fucking machine, bitch.”

Phil laughs; “I’ll think about that next time I consider buying, thanks.”

“This is _boring_ ,” Tommy complains again, wrist aching from the constant movement. Phil hums, beginning on his second bag, leaving it quiet between the two. Alright. So the boring card doesn’t work. Expected, but it was worth a shot. “My wrist hurts,” Tommy tries. “I’m gonna pause.”

“Alright,” Phil says. “Take your time, mate. I don’t expect you to finish five bags on your own today.” 

It’s the best reprieve he can get. He sits there for a few minutes, flexing his wrist, watching Phil sort through the nuts in a rhythmic, familiar way, as if it were a dance he’d practiced until he could do it in his sleep. Phil pauses for a moment, looks towards Tommy, and then smiles at him. 

“Do you wanna try one?” He asks. 

Tommy blinks, sitting a little straighter. “What?”

“I said, do you wanna try one?” Phil repeats.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ heard that, I meant what do you mean? Just fucking take one from the pile?” Tommy waves his hand at his good bowl. 

“Well, yeah,” Phil says. “Where else? I mean, you can try a bruised one, but I wouldn’t recommend them, mate.”

Hesitantly, Tommy takes a macadamia nut from the bowl and puts it in his mouth. It’s… alright. Not his favourite, but it’s alright. Very oily, almost like butter. “They’re good, right?” Phil smiles, taking one for himself. “They’re even better once the process is done, I’d say.”

Tommy hums. “Yeah, I guess they’re alright.”

“So, Techno told me you were struggling with your homework the other night,” Phil continues his work, signalling for Tommy to do the same. “If you don’t mind me asking, what homework have you got? They can’t be expecting normal classwork from you while you’re here, that’s cruel.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Tommy snorts. “But yeah, it’s not normal classwork. It’s a fuckin… diary. I’ve just got to write down things like when the farm was built and shit, then I’m gonna write a fucking speech about this place. But, like, Phil, no one’s gonna fucking care. It’s stupid.”

Phil nods, continuing his work. “So… you’re doing it solely to present?”

“Well, yeah,” Tommy says, shrugging, and turns back to his own bag. “What else would I do it for?”

“Yourself?” Phil asks, shifting in his seat. “I’m just an old farmer, so take my advice with a grain of salt, but if you don’t want to do it for the sake of presenting- and trust me, I understand that- try doing it for yourself. _You_ might want to remember this.” 

That’s…

“Good Point,” Tommy says, beginning to attempt sorting once more. 

“Like I said, take it if you want, but that’s just my advice,” Phil gives him a smile, and Tommy tries desperately to ignore how happy that makes him. “Work isn’t fun if you’re doing it for someone else. Especially if that work seems redundant. Try doing it for you, mate. See how that works out.”

“I… might,” Tommy swallows. “Yeah, I probably will. I’ll do it for myself and piss off Sarah Granison. Fuck yeah. Thanks, Phil.”

“I didn’t- yeah, okay,” Phil sighs. “If that makes you happy.”

-

“Today,” Wilbur says, sticks in hand. “We are not going into the fields.”

Wilbur continues to hold his two sticks, drenched by the rain but luckily saved by his cartoonish yellow raincoat, which coincidentally seems far too big for him. “We are going to be dehusking.”

Ah yes, that, the thing Tommy definitely knows about. “What the fuck?”

“A common response to that phrase! Don’t worry, child,” Wilbur looks deranged, Tommy decides, hair wet and disrupted by the weather, holding two sticks in a raincoat while he’s standing under the cover of the driveway overhang. “I will teach you everything you need to know about operating potentially dangerous machinery.”

Okay, so Tommy might not live to see Techno win. 

Wilbur turns on his heel and begins to match across the open lawn, towards the sheep’s shed. He takes a quick left from where Phil’s bike is parked and opens a garage door beside that to reveal another workspace. This farm is seeming a lot bigger than before, with the number of hidden workplaces they have. 

The floor is smooth concrete, with the actual dehusking machine once again looking like an industrial torture machine. There are crates lining the back wall and creating a barrier between the workspace and Phil’s bike storage, every crate numbered and filled with different forms of macadamias. Tommy can’t be sure what exactly this ordering pattern is based on, but it’s based on something. 

Wilbur drops his two sticks in a pile under the cover of the workplace and hums a tune as he slides empty crates into designated spots along an odd pipe-type thing with gaps between the bars that line it. Each gap between the bars is big enough to allow the macadamias to pass through easily. As he finishes, Tommy notices that their bags- the ones they’ve recently filled with macadamias from the paddocks they’ve done- are sat by the entranceway. 

“Grab one of them and pour it in,” Wilbur says, motioning to a weird rectangular funnel that heads into the heart of the machine. Tommy grabs a bag, lifts it, and pours it into the funnel, which fills easily. “Alright, now, child, we need safety gear.” 

Wilbur hands him earmuffs and gloves. “The earmuffs are helpful. The gloves make sure your hands don’t get sticky,” He says. Tommy puts them on, frowning when the gloves get stuck, but managing regardless. The earmuffs make everything sound distant, but luckily he can still hear Wilbur when he says; “So, now, we get the wonderful job of standing here and sorting through the nuts.”

He takes Tommy past the funnel, and towards a semi-flat, barred platform with thin metal walls on either side. Beneath that is a slide that takes anything that falls from between the bars down into a plastic, rectangular basket. There are a few nuts still on this platform- some empty shells that need the extra nudge down, and some half-shelled nuts that Wilbur places into one of the baskets on either side of Tommy, who is opposite him. 

“The small baskets make it so that we can put them back through, so the half-done ones go there,” He explains. “The actual half-nuts, or as I like to call them, the horribly deformed go in this little red bag beside me. They’re easier to break, so Phil sells them at the market for people to have a go at.”

Tommy nods. “And what do we do with the rest of the nuts?”

Wilbur pushes them further down, before lifting the barrier from the end and pushing them all the way down, into a little spiral that sends them into the barred pipe. “That’s what we do. Are you ready, Child?”

“Fuck yeah,” Tommy says. “I’m a big man. I’ve got this, bitch.”

“Alright!” Wilbur bends down, flipping the switch next to him. Then, he yells desperately above the screeching and crunching of the machine’s movements. “Let me know if you need me to pause it!”

This is a much easier, much messier set of motions. Maybe it’s the massive spike of anxiety Tommy gets when the shelled nuts, husks, and other bits of dirt come flying from the nose of the machine (which, Tommy discovers, sits at the top of this barred platform), and maybe it’s just the fact that Wilbur doesn’t seem to care if he gets things on the ground or puts husks into the half-husked shell’s basket. 

He blinks and they’ve got once bag done. Wilbur pours another in, swapping out the bottom green basket with a red plastic basket before dumping the green basket into Phil’s bike’s trailer, placing the green container back, and joining Tommy again. Another few minutes and Wilbur repeats the action.

They continue in this sort of-messy dance, where Tommy sorts and Wilbur maintains, for what Tommy assumes can barely be more than a few minutes at most. It drags on a little, but there’s no way they’ve done it for a few hours. It barely feels like they’ve been doing it for ten minutes by the time Wilbur switches the machine off.

“Good work, Child,” He says, taking his gloves off and placing them onto the bench he first got them from, which is pressed against the wall behind Tommy. He removes his earmuffs and puts them on the same bench. “Now we are free for the rest of today.”

“Until Techno’s match,” Tommy nods. 

“Yes, until we go to watch Techno beat some green boy’s ass at dodgeball,” Wilbur agrees. “Do you have anything you want to do?”

“Uh…” Tommy glances back to his sleepout. Logically, cleaning would be the best thing to do, and maybe doing his homework diary. But does he want to? Fuck no. There’s nothing interesting that he wasn’t to write down for future him to remember. “Nope, big man. Nothing.” 

“Oh, good,” Wilbur gives him a smile. “Mind following me? I’ve got something I’d like you to do.”

“This better not be the fucking dishes,” Tommy responds as Wilbur begins to walk back to the main house. “I ain’t no child worker, bitch. I don’t do the fucking dishes for free.”

Wilbur laughs; “No, it’s not the dishes.” 

They head into the kitchen, which is quiet- and empty, due to Techno and Phil’s absence. Wilbur leads him to the small couch underneath the chicken painting, which Tommy sits on the minute he sees it (because fuck, his legs are actually really sore).

This is what Tommy assumes is the living room side of the house. Underneath the window (that makes up most of the wall) sits several awards, some sharpies, and a guitar on top of its case. There are thousands of tiny signatures on this guitar, littering everyone someone could reach (besides, of course, the spaces where the strings should sit). Wilbur grabs it, the sharpies, and sits on the couch beside Tommy. 

“Here,” Wilbur says, extending the stringless guitar. “I’d like you to sign it, if you don’t mind. What colour sharpie do you want?” 

“Gold,” Tommy says, and Wilbur hands him the gold-coloured sharpie. “What’s this for?”

“Oh, it’s just from my travels,” Wilbur shrugs. “People I meet sign it. Usually it’s only the people I like, but y’know-“

In the unclaimed space between the sound hole, the bridge saddle, and the bridge, Tommy scrawls his message; ‘BIG MAN TOMMY’. “There you go, bitch boy,” He says. “I’ve signed your fucking guitar."

Wilbur looks it over. “Thanks, Toms.”

“Have Phil and Techno signed it?” Tommy asks.

Wilbur nods, shifting it so that he can show the upper side to Tommy- the side he would see if he looked down to check his strumming, or his chords, or whatever else. Sat among a number of others (a crude drawing of a house with the words ‘good luck mate - soothouse’ catch his eye, but he doesn’t comment on it) are two signatures; one, done in green pen, says simply ‘Phil Watson :)’ and the other, in red, says; ‘Techno’. 

“If I decide to leave, they’re gonna write their goodbyes there,” Wilbur explains, pointing to the spaces underneath (each big enough to fit a small paragraph). “So I can remember them wherever I go next.”

Tommy nods. “Cool, Wilbur. That’s… kinda weird champ, bitch, but whatever.”

“It’s only weird champ if you make it weird champ,” Wilbur says. “I think it’s kinda cool. I get to remember everyone I’ve ever met, everyone I’ve held a close connection to, whatever else I decide. It’s like a collection of people I know are in my corner.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy rolls his eyes, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s sentimental, I get it, bitch boy.” 

“I regret making you put your signature on this.”

“Well, too bad,” Tommy says. “You’re gonna have to live with the memory of me _forever._ I’m un-fucking-forgettable.”

-

He’s buzzing with excitement by the time Phil comes to pick them up. Wilbur and Phil keep up light chatter, but Tommy can barely sit still in his seat- let alone hold a conversation. The drive to Techno’s School pauses in a blur of him looking at the window, messaging Tubbo about how epic this is going to be, and occasionally giving his thoughts on the conversation Wilbur and Phil are having.

The school itself, once they’ve parked and gotten out, isn’t too big. It’s a country school, which can be told by the shitty low-maintenance playground which sits right next to a muddy field and a small stream, the small classrooms that barely hold more than 20 students in Tommy’s mind, and the fact it all fits neatly into an acre of land right next to about four different farms and a winery. 

Odd placement, but whatever. Phil leads him and Wilbur to the indoor hall, which is the biggest building in the whole school (and yet, nothing compared to the school halls Tommy’s seen in the city) and houses a small basketball court.

“Only Techno and Dream were allowed to bring family,” Phil explains. “The rest are his classmates- so please,” And for some reason, he looks mostly at Tommy; “Don’t embarrass him.”

Wilbur waves the concern off as they take their seats on the benches lining either side; “Yeah, yeah, we’ll be good, _dad._ No embarrassing Techno, we got it.”

Scanning the crowd, Tommy can’t decide which ones have the weird names, and which have the normal ones. They all look… more normal than Tommy expected. Several dodgeballs line the middle of the court, and one side has a green mat plastered down while the other has a pink one, making it easy for Tommy to know where Techno will be standing once it begins. 

He’s shaken from his observing (and, he realises, anxious foot tapping) as someone taps his shoulder. “Hey, uh, mind if I sit here?” They ask, and when Tommy looks up to respond, he pauses. 

“Oh, uh, sure,” Tommy responds. Isn’t this dude from his class? “Hi?”

“Yeah, Uh, hi,” The guy responds. “We go to class together? I’m Purpled.”

Oh, so that’s where- “Oh, uh, yeah, hi,” Tommy says. “I’m Tommy.”

“I- I know,” Purpled responds. “You’re- no offence! You’re pretty loud. It’s hard _not_ to know who you are.”

They sit in complete silence next to each other. Tommy shifts, trying his best to focus on Phil and Wilbur’s conversation, but finds that they’ve fallen silent. Great, what a wonderful start. Purpled shifts, too, and Tommy realises that it’d probably be polite to strike up some conversation. 

“So… uh…” Purpled beats him to it. “Which farm did you go to?”

Tommy falters. “Uh, macadamia nuts and sheep. There are avocados too but I’m not doing much with them.”

“Oh, cool,” Purpled responds. “And… how’d you end up here?” 

“I’m at the same farm as Techno.”

“Oh, c- that’s also cool,” Tommy can feel himself inwardly die the longer this conversation goes on. “I’m with Dream, George, and Sapnap.”

Tommy nods; “So we’re on opposite sides.”

“I guess.”

Should they leave it at that? Tommy hopes to every fucking god there is that they do. Purpled’s a nice kid, yeah, and they’d probably get along if they were in the classroom together more often- but they’re at a fucking _dodgeball_ duel, and he isn’t supposed to see _any_ of his classmates.

They’re all supposed to be far away from each other, not talking unless they absolutely want to or have to, but here he is. Purpled shifts again; “It’s nice seeing you. And it’s a little weird that we both ended up here, but I guess that’s the school’s fault.”

“Fucking Sarah,” Tommy mutters.

“Yeah, it’s probably ‘cause of Sarah,” Purpled nods. “Can’t stand her.”

“Me neither.”

The duel starts with someone- a rich kid, probably, based on the outfit- standing up with an unneeded microphone in his hand. “Welcome!” He says, adjusting his cap. “Today, we’ve got two of the school’s top dodgeball players- Dream and Techno- competing against each other!”

“The winner gets 100 dollars, and bragging rights,” He says. “Rules are that anywhere you hit them counts. Catching doesn’t mean that the other person’s out, headshots are permitted, and there are ten rounds in total. If anyone gets severely injured we’ll probably stop.”

“Without further ado, let the rounds begin!” The man steps back, turning the microphone off and sitting to the side with some of the other classmates. Dream and Techno enter from the main entrance, each taking their sides in silence, and Tommy listens as the whistle that signifies the beginning of the round blows, watching Techno and Dream fight to get as much ammo- dodgeballs- as possible.

In the end, Techno has a significant advantage. On his side, he has six balls while Dream holds four, and his first shot lands fairly close- Dream dodges by jumping, and throws his own shot while up in the air. Techno manages to catch Dream’s shot and throws it back, missing Dream’s leg by a centimetre. 

The screech of their shoes against the floor is the only background music as Dream arms himself again, one in each hand, crouching to make himself a smaller target. Techno, still standing, arms himself equally and fires off his first shot, which causes Dream to stand and dodge, which is his first mistake. The second is that his footing lands in an off position, which means Techno’s second throw lands square in his chest.

Tommy, Phil, Wilbur and the rest of the class’ Techno supporters cheer as the microphone man and some of what Tommy assumes are his friends reset the field. He replays the battle mentally in his mind with a wide smile on his face, when Techno turns to nod at him. 

In between rounds, because Techno’s class insists on being weirder by the minute, they watch as a man in a duck onesie with a red bikini over the top announces the rounds. Wilbur finds that hilarious, as do several others, and Tommy decides that the only person in this class vaguely cool enough to be a big man, like him, is Techno.

He watches with a wide smile as Techno rushes forward to grab the dodgeballs as ammo, and Dream does the same- this time, Dream gets the advantage, and in a matter of minutes, Purpled is cheering beside him.

Tommy tells himself that Techno will pull through next round. 

He does, in fact, pull through in the next round. Despite Dream getting the advantage in terms of ammo, Techno manages to catch his shots and turn them back onto Dream, which means that in a matter of minutes he lands a hit on Dream’s leg. Their little side-group are the first to cheer for Techno. 

While the basketball court is reset, Phil makes a motion to remind Techno to drink some water, and then turns to do the same towards Dream. This means there’s a five-second pause while the two follow Phil’s suggestion before the new round begins, which gives Tommy time to move back into his seat so he doesn’t look like a complete fool who falls out of his chair mid-round. 

All of this hard work, however, is almost completely lost when Techno wins the next round as well. Tommy cheers so hard he has to adjust his chair and steel himself against Wilbur to not fall off. Techno’s in the lead now, by at least three rounds. Fuck yeah.

And then Dream wins the fifth round. 

And the sixth. 

Tommy almost gives up hope. Almost, because the seventh round has Techno dodging Dream’s advances flawlessly, aiming up, and-

Dream gets hit. Tommy cheers so hard his throat feels scratchy even after he’s finished. 

Despite winning the previous round, Techno’s comeback streak doesn’t last, or even really happen. Dream rapid-fires three balls and manages to get Techno with the third, right on his arm- a close shot, but it’s deemed valid.

“That’s 4-4,” Wilbur says from beside him, as the court is reset and both sides stop again for water. Phil nods. “Techno better start winning or I’m going to have to think of what to say when Dream does. It would be terrible, Phil. I have so many things for Techno winning, what on earth do I say if Dream wins?”

“Techno has more to lose than Dream,” Phil says. “He’ll pull through. His whole school career is based on this.”

“I hope he does pull through,” Wilbur says. “At least a tie. I can manage to be cocky about a tie.”

“Technos got this,” Tommy says, and he hopes they’re right. “He’s a fuckin’... he’s a big man. The fucking biggest man of ‘em all. He’s got this.”

Tommy watches the last two rounds with desperate hope and wide eyes. It’s like a switch has been flipped, and suddenly Techno (despite the disadvantages he has and, occasionally, some of his classmates’ odd cheers) is fighting as if he were a warrior on the battleground. He dodges with terrific ease, loading his arms and firing one after the other to catch Dream off guard. 

Dream dodges one shot, only to stumble into a line of the shot fired directly after- he’s hit in the chest, again, by Techno’s shot. Wilbur silently thanks whatever higher power there is (Tommy can hear his thanks even from one person away), and Phil holds the widest smile he’s ever seen.

“There we go,” Phil says. “See, Will. He’s got this.”

The final round has Tommy on the edge of his seat again. He watches with bated breath as Techno desperately tries to adjust his usual pink braid into a bun that keeps out of his face- and fails, because it all falls out in a matter of seconds once he gets moving. It’s a simple action, but Tommy can feel it building up. This is it, this is where Dream gets his ass kicked.

And it’s a definite ass kicking. They throw near-miss shots back and forth continuously, and Tommy can’t help but watch with wide eyes and palpable childhood admiration as Techno manages to dodge or catch every one of Dream’s shots. Finally, as Techno gathers his arms full, Dream crouches to protect himself one final time. Techno aims, keeping eye contact with Dream, and- 

In the moment before Techno throws, when things are still lining up and falling together, Tommy realises that Techno might just be the most badass person he knows. 

-Techno gets a direct headshot. Dream lands with a thud, on his ass. 

“6-4! We have a winner!” Calls the microphone man, rushing to hold Techno’s hand up and signify he’s won. 

It’s instant. Everyone that was watching, though it was a small court, floods in to surround the two fighters. Amongst the chaos, Purpled manages to grab his shoulder. “It was nice seeing you!” He yells above the chatter. “I’ll see you back at school.”

“Yeah, you too,” Tommy nods. “Have fun.”

Wilbur grabs his arm, leading him to the middle of the court and weaving between the classmates surrounding them. “Yo!” Across from where they stand, next to Techno and Phil, stands Dream, Purpled, and two other odd-looking guys (one of them is considerably better looking than the other, in Tommy’s mind). Wilbur breaks their light chatter with a loud; “Suck it, green boy!”

“Thanks, Wilbur,” Dream laughs. “Good game, Techno. I’ll see you around.”

“Uh… same,” Techno nods. “Good Game.”

Dream and his little squad turn to leave. Phil insists the four of them stay to help pack up, as the rest of the class slowly begins to take their leave. “So,” Phil says as they make their way from the hall to the car. “That’s it for your school this year.”

“You’ve graduated!” Wilbur says. “Congratulations! You’ve made it further in school than I did.”

Techno gives his usual exhale. “Woo,” He responds, quietly. 

“Did you enjoy that?” Phil asks, hand on Techno’s shoulder. “The duel. You did very well.”

“Of fucking course he did well, he won!” Tommy exclaims. “He beat that weird green guy’s ass! Fucked Em up! It was so cool, Techno. You didn’t even hesitate. You were just like ‘Bam! Bam!’ And then he was on the fuckin’ ground and shit!”

“So, the child enjoyed it,” Wilbur responds. 

“It was… uh… it was fun,” Techno nods, but Tommy knows- the little tug at the end of his lips gives it away- that this is the widest smile he’s ever seen Techno do. “I enjoyed the part where I won.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to love yourselves and others !! <3


	3. Week Three.

He wakes up on Monday morning - not to the sunlight, not to Wilbur, not even to his newly scheduled alarm - to a phone call. A fucking phone call. 

“What the fuck do you want?” He asks, answering the call and pressing his phone to his ear. Tubbo’s laugh filters through the speaker, cracking every now and then. “Tubbo. Why the fuck would you wake me up, bitch?”

“Morning,” Tubbo says plainly, laughter dying down. Tommy can still hear the smile on his face; “Just thought I’d let you know you’re driving home from the airport with me.” 

“That’s no fucking reason to wake me up,” Tommy says. “I was having a good sleep! Dreaming and shit.” 

“Oh, yeah, sorry then,” Tubbo doesn’t actually seem to care. “Mother dearest would like to know if you want to get dinner with us on the way back to your house.”

“Depends,” Tommy responds.

“On what?” Tubbo asks.

“What kind of fucking food you’re getting, bitch,” Tommy says, sliding himself (and his covers) onto the carpeted floor before sitting up. 

“Oh, well, we were still discussing that,” Tubbo responds, also shuffling around. “We might just decide on the night of? Cause it might be that we just pick up takeaway and eat in the car. Dunno how tired we’ll be.”

“Mhm,” Tommy nods, cringing when he realises Tubbo can’t see him. “Yeah, sounds good, Tubbo. When’re we heading back again?”

“Uhhh,” There’s some tapping, and then a pause. “I think you and I fly back on Friday this week? Except your plane lands half an hour after mine.”

“You sure it’s not out of your way to take me? I can bus home,” Tommy responds. “Probably. I don’t fucking know. It’s too fucking early for this shit.”

“It’s alright, Tommy, we can take you,” Tubbo’s soft smile is so evident Tommy can almost picture it. He can’t wait to see Tubbo again. He also-

“Fuck, I can’t believe the three weeks are almost over already,” Tommy says. “I- wow. I didn’t- what the fuck- I thought this would feel a lot longer.”

“I know! I kinda wanna stay,” Tubbo jokes.

“Fu- same?” Tommy responds. 

He misses the knock at his door, but doesn’t miss the usual brown-haired, yellow-crew neck-wearing man that peeks through only seconds later. “Morning, Child.”

“Hold on, Tubbo,” Tommy says, muting himself on the call. “Wilbur.”

“Tommy,” Wilbur responds. “This is your usual wake up call.”

“Fuck you.”

“Well, that’s not nice.” Wilbur leans against the doorframe, running a hand through his hair before glancing at Tommy’s phone, which is laid on his lap. “Who’s calling you?”

“Tubbo,” Tommy responds. “Wait- here.” He puts Tubbo on speaker, unmuting himself; “Tubbo, say hi to Bitch Boy.”

“Hi, bitch boy?” Tubbo says, clearly confused. “Wait, is that an actual name?”

Wilbur laughs, moving closer so his voice can be picked up. He settles at the end of Tommy’s duvet-mound on the floor. “Hello, Tubbo. It’s actually Wilbur; Tommy’s just a fucking child that doesn’t like adults.”

“Don’t listen to him, Tubbo, he’s old as fuck,” Tommy responds.

“I’m- very confused right now,” Tubbo's voice cuts out slightly as Tommy’s phone struggles to keep the connection going. Fuck the shitty signal he gets in his sleepout. “Hi, Wilbur? Is that your name?”

“That’s my name,” Wilbur says, at the same time Tommy goes- “Actually his name is Bitch Boy.” 

“Oh… Kay then.” There’s a gap of silence. “I think I’m gonna leave. I, uh… have to go down for breakfast?”

“Yeah, you should do that,” Tommy says. “Bye, thanks for the lift home, man.”

“Oh- right, text me about dinner,” Tubbo responds. Then, clearly anxious to leave, he says; “Bye Tommy! Bye Wilbur/Bitch Boy!”

“Bye!” Wilbur says, and Tommy echoes him.

“Well, he’s nice,” Wilbur comments after a few seconds of silence. “We better head over for breakfast ourselves.”

“I’m in my fucking… pajamas,” Tommy responds.

“You can get changed afterwards. Literally none of us care,” Wilbur stands, offering a hand to Tommy. “C’mon, let’s get over there.”

Tommy takes it, letting Wilbur help him up. “Whatever you say,” Tommy responds. “But if they fuckin’ mock me, it’s on you, Wilbur.”

Wilbur pretends to contemplate it; “Yeah, I can live with that guilt. Let’s go.” 

The walk over happens in relative silence. Inside, the house is warm and Techno’s hair is still matted with sleep. Phil hands him a coffee and motions to the table, where spreads and toast are laid. Tommy shares a look with Wilbur as they start to prepare their breakfast. 

Once again, Wilbur has a fucking mountain of avocado on his toast. “Careful, mate,” Phil says as he sits down. “We’re running out of avos and it doesn’t look like we’ll get much harvest this year, with all the rain we’ve gotten.”

Wilbur blinks. “You think so?”

“Yeah, hasn’t been sunny enough for pollination on most of the trees,” Phil shakes his head. “It’s alright, there’s always next year.”

They eat in silence, Phil sipping tea from his thermos and Wilbur devouring his monstrosity as if it’s the last avocado toast he’ll ever eat. The sun gently pours through the room, and the window open in the kitchen allows for a soft breeze to pass them every few minutes. Tommy rubs the last of some sleep dust from his eyes and yawns a little. 

“So, we’re picking today?” Wilbur asks, mouth still half-full. 

“Yep,” Phil says. “The far paddocks - Dell, flat 4, and start on Mac 2?”

Tommy has no fucking clue what any of those words mean, and he’s been here three weeks. Wilbur, however, completely understands. “Yeah, looks like Flat 4 will take us a while. I checked the trees while I was raking and it looks like there’s plenty up there, so we’ll spend a day or two on that.”

“You leave Friday, right?” Phil asks Tommy. When he nods, Phil continues with; “If you can get Dell and Flat 4 done by Wednesday, then start on Mac 2, that’d be wonderful, mate.”

“I’m sure we can do that,” Wilbur says. “Are you and Techno joining us?”

Phil turns to Techno. “Tech?” He gets a noncommittal grunt. “Do you wanna join Wilbur and Tommy for some picking?”

“Sure,” Techno responds. 

“Alright, we’ll join in,” Phil nods. “Hopefully we can get the fields done quicker, then.”

“Which means a day or two off of raking or picking, fuck yeah,” Wilbur responds. “Tommy, you should come around again, this is the first time in months I’ve had a shot at a proper day off.”

It’s a joke, but Tommy quite suddenly wants to admit that he would, in fact, come back. He wants to admit that maybe, he doesn’t want to leave at all. Instead, he gives a soft, early morning laugh and sips his own tea. 

He can admit that later, when it’s actually time to leave. For now, he’d rather hang on to this little moment in time. 

-

The journey to the paddocks isn’t great. They carry over a long ladder, a bunch of sticks, and some bags. Phil brings over their rakes on his quad bike, and Wilbur sings along to the songs playing in his ear- The _people_ are fine. The fact his legs ache, his arms ache, and the ladder keeps hitting him in the side? That’s the part he hates about walking over. 

Once they get to the paddock, Phil tells the three of them to put sunscreen on, despite the cloudy weather. After the short break of “oh fuck where is the sunscreen” they have, Phil puts the ladder against the tree and climbs into the highest, thinnest branches with a small stick. 

“When you’re hitting the lower branches, Will,” Phil says, desperately thrashing at a nearby branch. Several thuds sound out as the macadamias hit the floor. “Watch out for me. And also watch for the nuts- they can get you in the eye quite badly.” 

“Got it, old man,” Wilbur responds. “We won’t hit you.”

“You better not,” Techno comments, a smile on his lips. “You’ve seen me with a dodgeball. I can do far worse with a stick.”

“Pff- that’s- that’s fucking- terrifying, I’m terrified,” Tommy says, shuffling closer to Wilbur. “Phil! Phil- Techno’s fuckin’- he’s scaring me!”

“Techno,” Phil says, somewhere deep in the tree. “Please don’t scare the child!”

Techno shoots him a look, grabbing the largest stick from the pile. Wilbur, apparently distracted, looks up from his phone; “Oh shit, right, we’re picking. Hold on.”

He types something frantically before setting his phone down on the pile of things they’ve left. Techno’s hoodie and Phil’s raincoat are the two other things Tommy can see, besides Wilbur’s day pack and Tommy’s own phone. 

Wilbur glances around the paddock, brow furrowing before he nods to himself. 

“Hey, Phil? It might be a better idea for Tommy and I to start on another row?” Wilbur calls out. A barely-audible response comes from further in the tree. Tommy finds himself copying Wilbur as they glance towards Techno, who gives them a thumbs up. Wilbur calls out a final time; “Alright, we’ll do that then!”

“This was mostly an excuse for me to climb a tree,” Wilbur admits to Tommy as he grabs a smaller stick. “It’s the only fun part. I’ll climb this one, and you can climb the next, alright?”

Tommy nods. “You do- Wilbur, what the fuck are we doing?”

“Picking,” Wilbur says. “You get to whack the tree until the nuts fall down.” 

Picking is… actually pretty fun. Out of all the things they’ve done, it’s Tommy’s favourite. He gets to hit trees, hold abnormally long sticks of bamboo, and poke Wilbur from a safe distance. It’s definitely his favourite. 

-

“Lunch!” Wilbur calls, his phone buzzing with its usual alarm. 

Tommy, who is currently higher in a tree than he’s ever been in his entire fucking life, glances down. Big fucking mistake. Letting out a shaky breath, he calls out a warning and drops his stick, listening to Wilbur’s laugh as his stick- gracefully, according to Wilbur’s half-laughed, half-yelled recount to him- lands on the floor and hits Wilbur’s shin. 

With a little less fright and a little more confidence, Tommy reaches over to a nearby branch and grapples onto it, shaking one of his feet from their previous balancing point. Now, with one foot dangling over a considerable height, Tommy shifts his hand down the branch and places his free foot into the crook of another two branches. He repeats the action with his other half, doing his best not to look down and not to hyperventilate, making his way down the tree. 

“Welcome to the ground floor, child,” Wilbur says as Tommy moves towards the base of the tree. “Need help?”

If he jumps from the lowest branch, he could twist his ankle by landing on the roots. He almost admits to needing help. 

“Fuck you, bitch. I’ll get down myself,” And he braces himself, pushing off from the tree and landing in a stumble (but, luckily, not enough of a stumble for it to hurt). “See, I’ve got this. I’m… I’m the best fucking tree climber ever.

“Alright, whatever you say,” Wilbur shrugs. “Phil beat you down, though.”

“No, he didn’t,” Tommy stands, brushing the dirt and bark from his shirt and pants. “Phil’s fuckin’ old. He didn’t get down before me.”

Wilbur snorts; “Let’s just get lunch, you gremlin child. I’m hungry.”

On their walk back, he somehow manages to fall in time with Techno, as Wilbur encourages Phil to sing along to something he’s listening to. Tommy adjusts his sticks for an easier walk, before saying; “Techno! How are you today, my friend?”

“You’ve been with me the entire day, Tommy.”

“Well, how are you?” Tommy asks. “I ain’t no fuckin’ mind reader, Bitch.”

Techno hums. “I’m alright.”

“Alright? Just alright?” Tommy responds. 

“Just alright,” Techno, who is carrying the ladder Tommy brought over, moves it onto his shoulder. “What about you?”

“I’m fucking great,” Tommy concludes. “I got to climb a fuckin’ tree, and I was- Techno, did you see that? I got all the way to the top. I’m the best fucking tree climber there ever was.”

“Didn’t Phil get higher than you?” Techno shifts his gaze from Tommy and towards the horizon. 

“Uh- no. No, I don’t think he did,” Tommy says. “I’m the best fucking tree climber.”

“Uh… alright,” Techno responds. 

“I think you should be proud of me,” Tommy nods to himself. “Yeah, bitch. You should be proud of me. I coulda fuckin’ died if I fell, but I’m a fucking big man and I didn’t.”

He gets a somewhat exhausted Techno-exhale-laugh, and that’s enough to make him smile. 

-

They pick for the next few days. By Wednesday, they’ve finished what Tommy comes to learn is the Dell paddock - a flat paddock that somehow earned its name because of Phil’s dad having an inside joke with one of the workers - and the majority of Flat 4. 

Thursday, their last full day of picking, brings more bruises than nuts. Tommy gets hit in the eye, in the forehead, and several times on the nose. He’s pretty sure that the farm’s going to make him look like he was caught in some sort of war, at the rate that his injuries keep developing (there’s a few small cuts on his hands and arms from reaching into the branches to pick the nuts down by hand, his favourite shirt has a small tear in it, and he’s gained a large bruise from where the ladder kept hitting him while he walked). 

Luckily, he can handle these small injuries. Because he’s TommyInnit (and Techno- lovingly? In the usual Techno-affection sort of way- told him to suck it up when he did, in fact, complain about said injuries). 

“Alright!” Phil says, dropping from the last ranks of the ladder. “I think that’s the last tree for this paddock. Wilbur?”

“Yeah?” Wilbur responds, up in the tree, squatting as if he were a bird. “Oh, yeah. I’m done, yeah.”

“Alright! Then we’ll get onto raking this paddock, before we pick the next one,” Phil nods. “Sound good, everyone?”

“Yep, sounds great, hey-“ Wilbur swings from the bottom branch, landing with a solid thud. He smiles, clearly happy with himself for managing that movement, and clears his throat; “Hey, Phil, hey- would it be alright if I have a friend round?”

“Yeah?” Phil says. “For lunch, mate? Or just because?”

“Oh, uh, probably lunch,” Wilbur responds, shrugging. “She’s got something of mine, from last time I saw her, which was forever ago- so I kind of invited her out? But she mentioned wanting to see the farm, and-“

“Don’t worry, Wilbur, I already said yes, mate,” Phil pats Wilbur’s shoulder, passing him to collect some of the sticks in his hands. “Your friends are always a treat to have around.”

Wilbur gives an awkward laugh as Tommy silently begins to collect the other sticks that Phil leaves behind, helping shift them to the gate of the paddock. Techno brings the ladder along, shuffling behind them. “Yeah, uh, she’s calmer than the rest of them I promise.” 

“Is this that fuckin’- the…” Tommy gestures, but it makes no sense to him or anyone else. “-the German woman?”

“Yeah!” Wilbur gives him a smile. “She’s gonna like you.”

“‘Course she will. Woman love me,” Tommy adds. “They see me in de streets and they just start fuckin’ flocking to me.”

Wilbur’s brows furrow, but he’s smiling, showing off a somewhat confused face. “Alright?” He responds. “Whatever you say, Child.”

“Bitch.”

“Child.”

“Get a fuckin’ original insult, you bitch,” Tommy gathers his rake in hand, nodding to Techno (who hands him it as he speaks) in thanks. “I’m sixteen, bitchass. That means I’m a big fuckin’ man and not a bitchy minor.”

“Mhm, well,” Wilbur ruffles his hair, holding his rake in the other hand. He passes by Tommy and heads towards his own tree. Somehow, Phil and Techno seem to already be working. “You’re still young. So, therefore a child.” 

Tommy heads towards his row, second to last, beside Wilbur. As he walks, he argues; “No! I’m fucking older than-“

“Don’t get upset, Child, have a bottle and calm down,” Wilbur mocks, standing at the base of his tree. “We don’t want you getting all angry. No one likes an angry baby.”

“Fuck you. You’re annoying.”

“Boys, Play nice,” Phil comments, one of the two that are actually raking. 

“Yeah, you tell him, Dad,” Wilbur responds, pressing his rake into the ground and holding the top to keep it steady. “Hear that, Tommy? You gotta play nice. Can’t insult me now.”

“Yes I fucking can,” Tommy says, lining his rake up to begin. “Just cause Phil said play nice doesn’t mean I’m not gonna fuckin’ insult you, bitch. You fuckin’ started it!” 

“Boys,” When Tommy turns his head, he sees that Phil isn’t raking anymore, and he can sense the shared ‘ _oh fuck phil's serious_ ’ between him and Wilbur right now. “Unless you want to be here all day, please stop mucking around.”

Tommy nods and preps the tree (and himself) for raking before glancing at Wilbur one more time. Wilbur sticks his tongue out at Tommy, who does the same in return, before laughing and starting his work. It, somehow, makes Tommy feel a little lighter. 

Like Wilbur is just a brother, messing with him every now and again. Like they aren’t on a farm, not at all related, one day away from Tommy leaving. 

Oh shit, right. Leaving. Tommy needs to pack.

-

He spends a few - fifteen, if he remembers correctly - minutes packing his bag before heading to the main house for lunch. Phil is cooking, Techno’s on the couch, Wilbur’s gone to the driveway end to meet his German friend and walk her down to the farm, and Tommy’s decided the rest of his packing can wait until the last minute. 

“You haven’t gotten to meet Techno’s eels yet, have you?” Phil asks, stirring a pot on the stove. Tommy takes the offered seat next to Techno on the couch, shaking his head when Phil turns to look at him. “Shame, they’re quite pretty once you get over their messy eating.”

Techno exhales in what he takes as the equivalent of a scoff. “What do they eat?” Tommy asks.

“Oh, y’know,” Phil shrugs. “Sheep. Lambs. Anything in the water, really.”

“They’re big,” Techno contributes. 

“About the size of my leg, I’d reckon,” Phil adds. “Out of water, of course, and some of them are still growing. Oh well, if we get any food for them tomorrow, maybe you can have a quick look before we head off.”

“Maybe,” Tommy shrugs. Eels don’t sound that exciting, honestly. 

“Speaking of you leaving, do you have your ticket? For the plane?” Phil takes the pot from the stove, placing it on the counter. “And are you packed?”

“I can pack tonight, and yeah. I’ve got my e-ticket and shit.”

“Good,” Phil nods to himself, stirring once more, before turning the stove off and placing the utensil into the pot. “I’ll be driving you. I don’t think Techno and Wilbur will be coming?”

“I’ve got to take Carl back to the normal paddock,” Techno says. “Can’t.”

Tommy tries to ignore the feeling in his chest. Just because he assumed he’d get to say goodbye to everyone _at_ the airport doesn’t mean that it was really going to happen. It doesn’t mean anything that they’re staying behind. “Yeah, alright,” He says. Then, instead of asking the real questions that sit on the tip of his tongue, he asks; “What time are we heading out?”

“I was thinking about 12? Maybe 1? Your flight only leaves at 3 and we need to be there by 2,” Phil answers, leaning against the counter. They’re just waiting for Wilbur and his friend, now. “So yeah, anytime between 1 and 12.” 

Tommy nods. “Alright.”

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, remembering the conversation with Tubbo earlier on Monday morning. Opening his messages, he double-checks that he has his ticket, and tries to remember any good food places they have in town. 

After a few moments of blanking, he settles on letting Tubbo choose, sending the message through as he drops his phone onto his lap. Soft light, not quite as early-morning-ish as usual, but soft light nonetheless, fills the room. Outside, grey clouds pull themselves across the sky, a signal that rain is coming their way. 

It’s not soon after his phone buzzes and the soft patter of rain begins to sound against the windows that Wilbur brings his friend through the sliding door. The woman has pink hair, much like Techno, although the shades are vastly different. Hers stands out clearly against her black shirt, which is an alright colour choice. 

It’s not yellow, so that’s a plus. 

Wilbur slides the door open, letting his friend enter first. “Everyone, this is Niki,” He says. “Niki, this is the family. Phil, techno, and the gremlin child.”

“Fuck you, I’m a big man,” Tommy says. “And that’s not my name, bitch.” 

“That’s Tommy, the one I mentioned,” Wilbur says, leaning towards Niki as if they can’t all hear him. “The one that insults everyone. But don’t worry, he’s a very small child. If he bothers you, I’m sure Techno can punt him.”

Wilbur’s friend- Niki- laughs. “Hello, Tommy. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Of course it is, I’m the best,” Tommy responds. 

“And Phil, Techno, thank you for having me over,” Niki gives a small bow, tucking her hair back behind her ear as she smiles. “Wilbur has said a lot about you all.”

Tommy’s phone buzzes to remind him he has a response from Tubbo, and it’s then that he makes the connection. “What the fuck?” Is the first thing he thinks to say before he glances up at Niki, phone in hand. “Do you know a short, brown-haired, clingy guy named Tubbo?” 

“Yes?” Niki says, looking confused. “Are you _his_ Tommy?”

“Yeah,” Tommy responds. “Unless there’s some other guy out there named Tubbo. And that would be fucking weird.” 

“It would, but it’s possible,” Wilbur says. “Do you two know each other, then?”

“Oh, no, uh,” Niki, politely, shuffles a little. “Tubbo is the student staying at the farm. I mentioned him?”

“Yeah, and he’s in my fucking class,” Tommy rolls his eyes. “Clingy as shit. The guy you spoke to, over the phone.”

Wilbur nods. “The one you tried to convince that I was named Bitch boy.” 

“Yeah, him.”

Silence falls between the five of them, as Tommy types out a message to Tubbo about how weird it is that he’s meeting someone from Tubbo’s farm. The air between the five of them is not quite awkward, but not content, either. Techno shifts slightly, adjusting his shirt and leaning against the side of the couch a little more. 

Phil takes this as a good time to speak, thankfully. “Help yourself,” He says, motioning to the three pots on the counter. “There’s plenty to go around.” He motions to the smaller of the three pots; “That’s the vegetarian sauce, for the pasta. In case you want that instead.”

Niki gives him a smile, and Tommy slides his phone back into his pocket as he and Techno stand. “Thank you, Phil. This looks wonderful,” Niki says.

They settle on eating outside- which is unusual, because _normally_ they eat inside, crowded around the four-seater table with the overhanging lamp. Unfortunately, this time, there are five people. So they sit outside, in the soft-light that signals a storm to come. 

Niki and Wilbur sit side by side, with Techno, Phil, and Tommy on the other side of the table. There’s no official boundary between them, but with the way Wilbur keeps up an effortless conversation with Niki and more often than not forgets to include them, the boundaries are clear.

“Didn’t know Wilbur liked her that much,” Tommy comments as he shovels his pasta into his mouth. “They’re practically fucking making out.” 

“At Least it’s not one of his other friends,” Phil comments, and Tommy gets the idea it’s mostly to himself. “I love Wilbur to bits, like he’s my own son, but I’m far too old to keep up with his friends.” 

Techno grunts in agreement. “At least he’s having fun, though,” Phil adds. “He seems happy.” 

“Fuckin bitch boy,” Tommy comments, shooting a glance to Wilbur and his friend. “Yeah, he looks happy. He’s probably got a massive fucking crush on her.”

Phil hums; “Crush or not, I’m just glad he’s smiling again.”

“What? Was he fucking depressed or something?” Tommy asks, swallowing another far-to-big bite of his pasta. 

“No, he’s just…” Phil shrugs. “I don’t know, exactly. When he first came, he did a lot of silently sulking. Hurting on the inside, I suppose. I’m just glad he’s smiling more- he doesn’t seem to be thinking about something else, something he’s left behind.” 

“He’s travelled a lot, you know,” Tommy pushes his plate away, sipping at his water. “Coulda been that.”

Phil gives him a ‘good point’ shrug, sipping his own tea from the thermos he prepared. “So, we’ll get on to raking this afternoon then,” The change of topic seems welcome, Phil’s voice just slightly louder- as if to catch Wilbur’s attention, which it fails to do. “Unless, Tommy, you have packing you need help with?” 

Tommy thinks about it. Not too hard, because he’s decided the answer already; “Nah, I’m a big fucking man. I’ll do it tonight.”

And he’s never experienced a fatherly ‘really?’ look before, but he does now, earning one from Phil shortly before the man asks; “Are you sure? We have time if you’d like to pack this afternoon.”

“I’m sure,” Tommy nods. “Got a whole fucking plan, bitch.”

Phil nods, clearly unconvinced. They finish their lunch, the chatter of Wilbur’s conversation with Niki providing food background noise. It doesn’t rain, not yet. But it will that night. 

-

If he thinks about it, really thinks about it, this is the place he thinks he might come back to. If Wilbur’s an example he wants to follow, he might travel when he’s older. He might visit the farm again. He might come around to find Wilbur’s guitar packed up, his attic-shack deserted, his presence gone. Or maybe Wilbur will still be here, having settled down like he mentioned. 

Still, Tommy likes to think he would visit, if given the chance. 

It’s a lovely place.

Except for the massive fucking rainstorms. 

He’s settled into bed, his phone discarded in the corner of the room as it charges away, ready to wake him up tomorrow morning when the first clap of thunder strikes. He pauses, hands hovering just barely above his bedsheets. A few seconds turn into a few minutes, and then another clap sounds out among the thuds of heavy raindrops on his windows. 

Has he got everything from outside? His shoes are still out there - that’s a different matter, because those are his _gumboots_ and they’re made for getting wet - and his jackets are too. They’ll be fine. He can handle wet- 

Another clap of thunder. Yeah, no, there’s no way he’s going out there. Wet jacket or not. 

The blankets are warmer than the rest of the room as he pulls them around himself, settling in for the night. He counts the seconds between thunderclaps, ignoring the creaks of his little sleepout, and does his best to dream the night away. 

He almost manages to sleep, when there’s a knock at his door. He groans out a response, not sure if he’s letting the person in or demanding they stay out. It doesn’t matter because regardless, the door creaks open. “Tommy?” Oh.

“Wilbur?” He responds, propping himself on his elbows. “What the fuck? Isn’t it, like, midnight or some shit?”

Wilbur stands in the doorway, letting cold air in, and gives him an airy laugh. “Yeah, uh,” He shifts slightly. “My house has a habit of shaking so much I can’t sleep, and the grass is practically flooded. Usually, I stay in here, but-“

An inhale. An exhale. “Would you happen to have a spare mattress?”

Hmm, that’s a rough one. “Why would you think that? I’ve only got four mattresses,” The sarcasm drips from his voice. When he sees Wilbur shift, unsure of what to do, he amends his previous statement; “Yeah, I’ve got one. A whole free bunk, really. I only fucking need one bunk bed.”

The door shuts, and Wilbur gives him a soft laugh. “Thanks, Toms,” he says. “Wasn’t really sure what to do if you said no, to be honest.”

“D’you need blankets?” Tommy asks.

“Nah,” Wilbur answers. “You’ve got some spare. I’ll use those, if you don’t mind.” 

Tommy nods. “Yeah. G’night, Big man.”

“Goodnight, Child,” Wilbur responds. Tommy lets his eyes shut, listening to the soft ambient noises of Wilbur setting up his own bed and sliding in. And as he drifts off, he reminds himself that Wilbur’s only just a small movement away. 

That, if he really wanted, he could speak to Wilbur. At any minute, he just had to open his mouth, and he’ll most likely wake the elder up. 

It’s an odd thought. 

Surprisingly, it’s nice. He chuckles when Wilbur lets out a small “Well, that’s rude,” upon hearing the door to their bathroom shed (which sits on the side of the house) slam open, and it’s nice. 

-

He did it. He finally gets to wake up on time, thanks to an alarm. Finally. No Wilbur wake up call, no bleary-eyed rolling off of his bed and making small talk with Wilbur until he properly registers his surroundings. He did it. 

He woke up by himself. 

Wilbur woke up before him. 

“Morning,” Wilbur responds, already packing up and fully dressed. “We better head over soon. Breakfast is in five.”

“Breakfast-“ Tommy sighs, phone in hand. He’d needed to get out of bed, trudge across the room, switch off the alarm- Wilbur could’ve switched the alarm off. There was no fucking need for Tommy to get up. “God, I swear the time for breakfast changes every day.”

“Nope, you just wake up at different times,” Wilbur shrugs, folding and placing his final duvet back into its initial place. “Thanks… thanks for letting me stay, last night.”

“Yeah, don’t sweat it,” Tommy shrugs. “Your houses was shaking. What the fuck else would I do?”

“I dunno,” Wilbur responds. “I should probably get the shaking checked out.”

“Was it like, deadly shaking, or were you just being a bitch?” Tommy asks, gathering his stuff to get ready for the day. 

“Oh, I just can’t sleep if I’m moving like that,” Wilbur says. “It wasn’t much, I don’t think. But any shaking while I sleep- I’m up and out of there.” 

Tommy nods. “That’s alright, then.”

They head over together, slower than they usually do. Something tells Tommy it’s not just because they were up late due to the storm- something makes him feel like it’s got to do with him leaving, and his inability to promise that he _can_ come back. 

His three weeks are up. This might be the last day he ever sets foot on this farm. 

-

There are dewdrops on the grass that make his shoes wet as he walks back to his house to gather the last of his stuff. There’s a spider’s web in the corner of the porch entrance that wavers in the wind and, at night, holds a deadly, large, terrifying creature just mere centimetres away from Tommy whenever he passes through. 

Mud constantly coats the underside of his shoes. It rains every other day. His little sleepout has four beds and one of him. It’s cold, the heater does near-nothing to fix that, and at night he can see every little star in the sky. There are frogs that sing to each other in the little ponds of rainwater collected around the main house’s garden, and if Tommy looks closely, he can see these little creatures. 

In the open-plan living room there is a guitar with his signature on it, and several other signatures, too. There are sheep in the paddock behind his sleepout, and soon there will be pigeons in the makeshift ovary, too. 

Four bags of macadamia nuts sit outside the dehusker. There’s a cattle stop in the middle of the main house’s driveway, and rose bushes either side. The farm is cold - and wet, and more often than not exhausting - but it is home. It is _his_ home. 

His - the sleepout’s - windows are clean of cobwebs, and when the curtains are shut, there’s always a little bit of light that streams through the crack. The spider sits in the corner of the entrance onto the porch, as if it’s wishing him a safe trip home by being out during the day. The picnic table that housed his first conversation with Techno that didn’t involve something about gardening or dirt always creaks as if it’s calling him back to it when he walks past. He takes his jackets from the rusted hooks and puts a few of them on, deciding to put the rest into his carry-on bag, just in case. 

The couch-like seat form the back of a van, which is pressed against the wall that ends the porch, has been a nice place to lay his daypack on while he wasn’t using it. The door to the house creaks, one final time, as he opens it. He leaves his two bunk beds, the old camera kicked beneath the first bunk bed, the (barely) folded duvets and pillows on top of the second bunk bed, in favour of grabbing his bag and throwing the last of his snacks and jackets in. 

The sleepout has always been cold at night and warm during the day, and it’s cramped compared to his normal house. But the dust has left, and his three-week visit must end. Unfortunately. 

And with the final click of his- the sleepout’s- front door, he leaves behind his four different mattresses, the shitty hand-made shelf, the several types of undrunk tea _and_ the heater that doesn’t work. With his final trek to the main house, he leaves behind the spider that has caused him to jump over the fence to get onto the porch and into the sleepout more than once, the picnic table, and the now-empty couch-like van seats pushed against the back wall of his porch. 

(He doesn’t admit that it’s home. That’s for later, on the plane, when he can’t help but face the fact he’s going someplace other than the farm.)

-

Wilbur helps him pack his bags into the car. “I’m gonna miss you, child.”

Tommy laughs; “Yeah, I’ll miss you too, Wilbur.”

It’s a two-minute job, and then Phil’s outside with them. “Are you sure you have everything? Maybe you and I should go check,” Wilbur says. “Just to make sure.”

It’s a silent plea; _just a little longer, please._

“I’m sure we can ship anything you leave behind down to where you are, Tommy,” Phil says, a comforting hand on Wilbur’s shoulder. “We do have to get going, though.” 

“The weather looks rough, are you sure they’ll fly?” Wilbur asks.

“We won’t know until we get there, Will,” Phil’s hand remains on Wilbur’s shoulder. Then, he pauses, and gives in at the sight of Wilbur’s face; “I’m going to get Techno so he can say goodbye. I won’t be long.”

Phil turns, taking his hand back, and leaves to go back into the house- giving them both more time to say goodbye. Mentally, both Tommy and Wilbur cheer. “You’ve got my number, yeah?” Wilbur says. “Make a text chat, or something. Just- keep in touch, okay, child?”

Tommy nods. “Yeah, let me know how things work out for you, too, bitch boy.” 

There’s no laugh, just a smile, and Tommy wishes he could give up the suffocating life he has back home just to get back Wilbur’s brotherly laugh. “I’ll let you know if I ever come by your town,” Wilbur says, softly. “And I’ll send you embarrassing photos of Techno. You’ve signed up for a life of embarrassing photos of the two of them, Tommy.”

“You’re not leaving? Not gonna travel, like you said?” Tommy asks, gaze trained on his scuffed shoes. 

“Don’t think I can,” Wilbur admits. Tommy looks up to find that Wilbur’s looking away, leaning against the car. “Everyone I want to know is here, Toms. Except for you- and I’ll hear from you again.”

Wilbur meets his eye. Silently, Tommy hopes that his eyes give away just how much it means that Wilbur wants to hear from him again. He hopes that, even if it’s just a passing thought, Wilbur manages to understand how grateful Tommy is to have met him. 

“You’re like a brother to me, you know,” Tommy admits. It’s the closest he can get to what he means. Wilbur takes it with a laugh.

“Don’t say that,” Wilbur runs a hand through his hair, blinking rapidly. “It’ll make me cry.” 

Silence falls between them, and Tommy’s about to give his final goodbye when Wilbur pulls him in. It’s awkward, due to the height, and because Tommy isn’t entirely sure how to react- but Wilbur hugs him, and it screams something about _please come visit, you’re like a brother to me too-_ and he almost gives up on making it home, just to let this last. 

He can’t. He hugs back instead. 

Wilbur pulls away first. “Goodbye, Toms.”

“Bye, Wilbur.”

-

Phil is waiting in the car for him. 

He really is leaving, huh? The farm is going to be millions of miles away from him, and he’ll be none the wiser to any of the moments they share. He’s going to miss this. 

Everything. He’s going to miss it. There’s nothing he can say to accurately describe how much he’ll… well, how much he’ll miss this place. Even with its shitty heating and disgusting sheep and hard work. 

Wilbur’s gone back inside, as though he can’t handle saying another goodbye. It’s fair, because _Tommy_ isn’t sure he can handle another goodbye. Not from a big sap like Wilbur. 

Techno hasn’t said goodbye. 

Coincidentally, Tommy is standing outside with Techno, right now. This is, supposedly, the moment where they should be having a tear-filled goodbye to each other. Now is, most definitely, the time where Techno should admit anything big he had to say to Tommy. 

“Uh… bye,” Techno gives him a little head dip, as if he’s giving permission for Tommy to leave. “It’s… been nice.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Yeah, it has.”

“You…” Techno clears his throat. “Uh… thanks. For the help on the farm. Hope the flight goes well and everythin’.”

Tommy nods. “Yeah, I’m sure it will. Thanks- thanks for having me. Thanks for letting me sit in on the dodgeball duel.”

“Eh, that was nothin’,” Techno waves his hand around, the movement barely that- a movement. “You’re practically part of the family. Wilbur’s made that clear.”

“Yeah, I’m-“ Tommy gives a half-hearted chuckle. “I’m gonna miss that. I’m gonna miss this.”

With a furrowed brow, Techno responds; “You can visit anytime.”

“I know,” Tommy smiles. “Bye, Techno.”

Techno relaxes, giving him the first near-soft smile Tommy’s seen from Techno; “Bye, Tommy.” 

-

“All strapped in?” Phil asks as he starts the car. Tommy responds with a nod, and then the sound of his seatbelt clicking in. “Right, let’s get this on the road, then.”

They travel down the driveway and turn onto the road without anything being said between them, a silent agreement to leave the noise at being no louder than the cars engine or the occasional car heap. 

His head is swimming. His palms are sweaty and something weighs on his chest. Does he want to leave? Does he? He blinks a little slower, breathes a little slower, anything to keep time from slipping away from him. Anything to say, silently, that he wants to go back. 

Magically, he hopes something happens. Maybe his flight _can’t_ leave in this weather, maybe his parents don’t want him, maybe he just _can’t_ leave, for whatever reason- but he knows that’s not the case. It’s going to happen. He’s going to get on that plane, and make it home, perfectly fine. 

And then he’ll have nothing but his bruises and scratches and some memories to remind him of his time here. 

It’s suffocating, in a way that makes him wish he were at the farm. He could breathe there. Even in the rain, or smothered under his blankets, or covered in the many layers of his rain gear- even then he could breathe easier. 

(And maybe it’s because it was home, because everything there was as natural as the sun’s rise and set.)

“There’s a farewell basket in the backseat, for you,” Phil says, breaking the silence. His eyes stay on the road, but Tommy watches the side of his face for any sign of the same anxious mourning that he feels. “Wilbur, Techno, and I put it together. It’s just a few of our products we thought you’d like. For you to have on the plane, or later.”

Tommy nods. His throat feels dry. “Yeah, thanks,” He says, turning to the window and watching as country scenery whizzes past them. “Thanks- thanks for having me. I… enjoyed it.”

Phil glances at him, then back to the road. “We enjoyed having you,” he says. It makes Tommy feel sick. He doesn’t want to go. This is _home,_ he doesn’t _want_ to go. “You can always come visit.”

“I…” Tommy swallows again. His throat is still dry. “I can?”

“You can,” Phil nods. “If you need a place to stay, or you just want to say hi. We’re here for you.”

He blinks back tears. He wants to tell Phil he can’t leave, wants a text to come through from his parents- or a teacher, he doesn’t care- saying that, for whatever reason, he _has_ to stay. God, please, don’t make him go home. 

The idea of going home, back to life where he sits at a desk and mindlessly follows the lesson plan for the rest of the day, back to where his parents order takeout every other night and cook very rarely, back to where he feels so alone- it chokes him up, and knots in his stomach until he feels breathless. He’s not sure he can handle the way he feels so lonely when he sits in his house, because his parents do _try,_ but it’s like he’s had a taste of what _could have been_ and now he’s left wanting more of a life that he just can’t have. 

He knows what will happen. He knows he’ll return to bussing home every afternoon, to his parents getting home and asking how his day was (but not really caring), to being Tubbo’s best friend and making teachers sigh in annoyance whenever he enters their classroom. He knows that he’ll fall into it, because it’s what he knows, and he’s good at doing it. He knows that he’ll ignore how it feels wrong, won’t bring it up until he’s smothered it completely, won’t-

“And I mean that,” Phil interrupts his thoughts. “I mean that. We’ll be here. I don’t think we’ll be doing this again next year- not because of you- but that doesn’t mean _you_ can’t come back. If they send you off to do something like this again- feel free to mention this place. You can always come back.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Tommy takes a shaky breath. It’s okay. He’s fine. “Yeah, thanks, Phil.”

Phil nods. “I mean it. We all do.”

“I know,” Tommy says. “If you guys ever think of coming around town, then don’t feel afraid to say hi. I can show you all the places that are down with the kids.”

Phil laughs; “Oh, I’m not sure I’d be able to handle that. But you’re welcome to make Techno or Wilbur suffer with that, if we ever come by.”

Even though he wants to keep brooding, he can’t help the smile on his face. “Oh, they’ll be so pissed,” Tommy says. “I’ll- they’ll hate it, Phil. _So_ much. It’d be torture.”

“It would,” Phil nods. He turns off. “We’re almost there. You got everything you need?”

Tommy nods. “I’ll grab my stuff when we park.”

“Do you need a hand?” Phil takes another turn. Tommy must’ve spent so long thinking that he didn’t notice nearly half an hour slipping from his reach. “With the bags?” 

“Oh, nah, don’t worry,” Tommy waves a hand around. “I’ll be fine. I’ve only got, like, one suitcase.”

Phil stops to get a parking ticket, before driving through to the drop-off zone. “Alright,” He says. “It was lovely having you, Tommy. I’ve got to go pick up the car from the mechanic, so I can’t stay long- unless you want help?”

He’s going to cry. If Phil stays to help him, he’s going to make the most embarrassing scene out of it. “Uh- no thanks, I’m Good,” He says. “I’ve got it.”

Phil nods, popping open the boot for him as Tommy exits the car. He gathers his bag and daypack, swinging the daypack over his shoulders and carrying the suitcase in his right hand. He briefly opens the back door to get his gift bag, leaving the suitcase on the sidewalk as he does so, before stepping away from the car and shutting the back door. 

Tommy gathers his bags in his hands, jiggling them slightly to make the grip more comfortable. A window winds down. “Got everything?” Phil asks from inside the car, smiling, his usual fisherman’s hat blocking his eyes from the sun as he leans towards the passenger window to speak to Tommy. 

“Yep,” Tommy says. “It’s fuckin’ heavy as shit.” 

Phil laughs. “Take care, Tommy.”

They stand there, and Tommy wonders if he should be the first to leave- to turn and admit that it _has_ to be over. He has school on Monday- he can’t be here forever, but he wishes he could be. 

“You’ve got our numbers. Text, alright? We’d like to hear from you.” Phil says, turning towards the road, hands slowly placing themselves on the steering wheel. Tommy nods. He definitely intends on bugging Wilbur about getting Techno’s number once he gets some decent signal again. 

“I’m gonna make the sickest group chat, Phil,” Tommy says. “You guys are gonna experience the real Big man side of life.” 

Phil laughs, and Tommy can imagine for a moment that he isn’t about to leave that laugh behind, with practically no chance of hearing it again. He wonders if Wilbur would’ve laughed, if he would’ve gotten a Techno exhale. He’ll never know. 

The laughter dies down, and Phil glances at the steering wheel again, lightly tapping his fingers against it. He seems to consider his next words, as if they’re two strangers, and Phil isn’t sure what to say to Tommy to make them friends again. 

Phil looks at him. Tommy meets his gaze. “Come visit sometime, alright, mate?” Phil says. 

And Tommy says; “I will.” 

(But they both know the truth.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to love each other and yourselves <3


End file.
